Or, You Could Call It "Love"

I wonder if the title of our blog is a bit misleading? Sure, it suggests the fact that we’re sisters (check) and that sometimes, we like to razz each other until one and/or both of us cries (check), but it doesn’t say everything.

There is so much more to being sisters than sharing one or more parents and exchanging bitchy remarks, even if it doesn’t always feels that way. (One time, when I was seven and M was nine, she called me “dick breath” during singalong at summer day camp. I can’t say it didn’t hurt.) Along with the shackles of DNA and torment comes, ironically, a certain freedom. I am free to be a jerkbag and I know that M will still speak to me, albeit after a long period of silence. I can proudly show off my talent for nostril wiggling, and she’ll think it’s kinda cool. And she, in turn, can punch me in the arm (M has wicked-quick reflexes) and know that although I may bruise physically, I’ll still feel the same way about her (except slightly more frightened).

This is the dichotomy of sisterhood: friends and foes, laughter and tears, good and bad. And when, once in a while, Ugly rears its head, I know that we can talk about it – but I’ll definitely save that for the post about M’s grade eight graduation dress.



H doesn't actually look like this. But if she did, M would love her anyway.