An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation

Little sisters are so unfair

Yesterday Leta had a play date here at the house, one that lasted the majority of the day and now I feel like I have a little bit of insight into what a cop must go through when trying to break up a fight between two irrational drunk people. Because here’s the thing: MARLO. She’s the thing. She’s a kicking, screaming, should have stopped at the tenth shot of tequila and is determined to convince you she is not drunk thing.


Marlo wanted nothing more than to play with those two girls, to be in the same room, to touch the toys in their hands. That’s it. She just wanted to be a part of it. But Leta, she wanted nothing more than for Marlo to go away, to be banished to a remote island, to be locked in a cage at the bottom of the sea, to MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOOOOMMMMM! MOOOOMMMMM!

Leta used up all of the MOM!’s yesterday. All of them. There are none left. That’s why your kid is calling you by your first name today, Jennifer.

Remember when your mother would get angry at you and call you by your full name, how the hair would stand on the back of your neck and a sickening pulse would run down your spine? Turns out she was feeling the exact same thing whenever you were annoyed and calling for her to come fix it. Because damn if she didn’t raise you to fix it yourself.

I ran constant interference between the two of them, all day long. Over and over and over again.

And then again.

And then once more.

Oh, it just happened again.

It’s still going on.

I did the best I could to keep Marlo occupied, but she’d spot an opening and make a run for it, up to Leta’s room and then MOOOOMMMMM! And my spine would shoot up and out the base of my skull. It was spectacular. Shards of bone everywhere. Blood splatter on the wall. CSI showed up.

So I’ve got Leta going on and on and on about how it is the worst thing ever in the entire world and the history of the universe to have a little sister and each time she says “sister” she’s making a face like she’s drowning in a septic tank. Meanwhile Marlo is writhing and kicking the floor and this ungodly noise is just erupting from her face because they won’t let her touch the Squinkies and I’m like, whatever happened to dirt?

Here is a stick, there is some dirt, figure it out. I’ll call you back inside for dinner when the timer goes off and I take the frozen pizza out of the oven.

Didn’t we figure it out? Am I making this up? Am I remembering things wrong because I didn’t have a younger sister who was all up in my stuff? I just remember leaving the house for hours and my mom had no idea where I was. Whatever happened to not knowing where our kids are, am I right?

  • issascrazyworld

    Oh also the outside and parents not knowing where you were was I think a suburb thing. I lived in West Los Angeles and I promise you I couldn’t blink outside without asking permission first.

  • Kara

    This is completely unrelated to this post, but I’ve been going through the hardest time of my life thus far, and reading your blog and knowing someone else has gone through another impossible situation and come out on the other side relatively intact is literally the only thing keeping me going most days. So I just wanted to say thank you for being brave enough to share your stories with the world, despite the nasty negativity some people insist on sending your way.

  • I put my Skipper doll under the wheel of my dad’s car to see what would happen when he ran over it. He was very concerned about me when he realized I had done it on purpose. (ps, nothing happened. She was made of rubber)

  • Heather Armstrong

    Thank you, Kara. “Relatively intact” pretty much nails it. Things do and will get better. I’ll be thinking of you.

  • I always wanted to play with my brother and his friends. They would refuse long enough to get me totally riled up, and then agree to let me play. Then…..they would just sit and stare at nothing. I would whine and they would say “this is what we were doing”. And then keep doing it until I would leave in a rage. Brothers!

  • lovelifeandbeautytherapy

    When I was about 8 or 9 my little sister had a friend over, I must have been feeling particularly annoyed at the time and locked them both in the bedroom toy cupboard and tied the door shut with a skipping rope! I was in SO much trouble…just be thankful that Leta didn’t “jail” her sister!

  • lisdom

    My younger brother is living with my husband and me, and three times in the last half hour he has knocked on my door to ask me something, while I am holed up trying to write the last paper of my college career. I don’t think the younger ones ever grow out of it, and I don’t think the older ones will ever not be annoyed by their younger annoying siblings. =)

  • My mother used to pack my stuff for me when I said I wanted to run away.

  • SJS

    They really want you to pick a fave kid. To referee is to pick a winner…whom is better? Best? RIGHT?

    Don’t buy into it. Set some rules and stick to them- otherwise you’ll come to hate the whole idea of anyone’s friends ever coming over. Yes, I had a sister three years younger-we had our ups and downs, but my mom NEVER got involved unless blood or vomit showed up.

  • Jancave

    I keep looking at Marlo’s face in that photo and hope you realize that child is never gonna make momma a hot dog….

  • sam

    I hate to be the bearer of really bad news, but once both my daughters had their periods, my boys called it “hell week” and hid in the basement. Seriously. Hid food down there and everything……

  • I am that older sister. That is me. I am almost five years older than my brother and he wanted to do EVERYTHING with me and my friends.Only thing is, my parents didn’t try to distract him. They guilt-tripped me instead so I felt like a bad sister growing up for wanting my privacy. He also felt entitled. We’re cool now, but there has to be a happy medium.

  • Nicole

    Heather did this for me, too. This post in particular.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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