Montana Momoirs Column

Shortly after Peter was born, my neighbor asked Mike how he liked his new baby brother.

“Mikey doesn’t,” Mike replied, matter-of-factly.

And that about summed it up. Peter was born and ruined Mike’s life. End of story.

Prior to Peter’s birth, Brent and I were very aware of the possibility that Mike would have a difficult time with the arrival of his new brother. Mike had, after all, been ruler of the roost – king of the castle – for nearly three years.

So we did everything we could to ease Mike into being a big brother. We went to the library and checked out books that tackled the topics of babies and new siblings. We encouraged Mike to help us prepare for Peter’s imminent arrival by getting clothes, blankets, and diapers ready to go. We bought Mike a doll that he could take care of while Brent and I cared for Peter.

And in a final stroke of what we considered to be sheer brilliance, we even bought Mike some presents that Peter would “give” to him at the hospital. I mean, really – what better way to win over an almost three year old than with gifts?

When Peter finally made his appearance one cold winter evening, we thought we were ready to go. We were sure Mike was ready to be the best big brother in the world. But if I’ve learned one thing over the course of parenting two kids, it’s that you’re rarely, if ever, ready for what your kids can dish out. And Mike’s reaction to Peter’s birth was certainly no exception to that rule.

Mike, who is by nature an exceedingly curious, loving, and gentle child, at first pretended Peter didn’t exist. It was as if Mike was testing the theory, “If-I-do-not-look-at-him-he-is-not-there.”

But Peter was there. So then Mike moved onto a new tactic – testing his venture-capitalist skills by attempting to sell his brother to anyone who showed remote interest in our new baby. When that failed, desperation settled in and Mike then just tried to give his brother away – a free baby – to anyone who happened to come within ten feet of us.

Of course that didn’t work either. So there we were – stuck with this new baby who, by anyone’s definition, could not be considered easy. Like most new babies, Peter rarely slept. He wanted to eat all of the time, practically every hour on the hour. And if he was awake and not eating, Peter occupied himself with crying, though full-on, ear-drum-rattling screeching might be a better description of his favorite activity.

When Peter screamed like that, Mike would retreat to the couch where he sat with his ears covered and sobbed, “Pee-tah! Why did you ruin my life?”

Of course I was wondering the same thing. Because not only had I just given birth to the spawn of Satan, but my once happy-go-lucky, relatively easy three year-old was miserable. And as a result, he had evolved into a toddler-sized version of his baby brother.

All of the books we had read, the presents we bought, and the doll we had purchased – which I later found in a compromising position shoved under the kitchen skink – had proved worthless. All of the advice from doctors and child behavioral experts was not working in our house. Which meant I was on my own.

Which is not a very comfortable position to be in since I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing when it comes to parenting.

My first attempt at remedying the situation involved taking the hard line and telling Mike to just get over it; Peter was here to stay. But, and I didn’t think this was possible, that just made things worse.

So I turned to what I do best. I started telling stories. I talked with Mike about how I remembered when my brother, his Uncle Matt, came home from the hospital and how much I wanted Uncle Matt to go back to the hospital to stay. I told Mike about how I spent years of my life alternating between playing with Matt and doing things like giving him whitewashes and pushing him off of everything, from the tops of slides to our garage roof. What I emphasized in each story – no matter the drama or high jinx involved – was that his Uncle Matt and I grew to become the best of friends, which we remain to this day.

I don’t think Mike believed me but amazingly, things got slowly better. Two years ago, I never would have guessed that I’d be saying this, but Peter and Mike are now the best of buddies, playing together, helping one another out, and backing one another up. I hope that this early friendship continues to evolve for the rest of their days and that they will always be good friends.

I’m willing to wager a large sum of money that the dramatic improvement in their relationship had less to do with my stellar parenting skills than with the passage of time and a person’s ability to adapt to new situations. Even if that situation originally makes you want to retreat to the couch and sob about your life being ruined with your ears covered.