The Sleeping Volcano

Thisbe has been, thus far, a terrific big sister to you, Matteus.  She sings to you, strokes your eyebrows like little caterpillars, pushes you on the baby swing (as high as it will go), strikes the silver triangle as near to your ear as possible, fogs up your face with her breath, and dons her high heels and practices flamenco on the hardwood floors while you sleep.  And when you're awake, you adore all of it.  You follow her with your gorgeous, slightly amphibian eyes and purse your lips and wave your hands around in excitement.  And most of what Thisbe says and sings to you involves words like I love you and you are the most beautiful brother in the world.

But along with Thisbe's exuberance over your arrival has also arrived a preoccupation with death.  I'm not sure if this is simply a natural developmental stage or if subconsciously she wondered if I might die when you were born or if she suddenly recognizes that the seam between life and death is tenuous, that somehow your passage from seeming nothingness into existence has opened up questions about the passage from existence back into nothingness.

Whatever the reason, Thiz asked your father a bunch of questions about death right after you were born.  Now, however, the preoccupation with death as well as the latent ambivalence about sisterhood is coming out indirectly, in pretend play and in song lyrics.

Two days ago, while I cooked dinner, Thisbe made play-doh pizzas at the breakfast nook table.  This naturally progressed into a scenario in which Captain Von Trapp was trying to kill Maria and Maria was proclaiming that she didn't want to die.

Later, as we colored, Thisbe said, you know what would be sad, Mama?  
What?  I asked.
If wolves came and bit off baby brother's head. 
Yes, I affirmed, that would be sad.

Yesterday, as I nursed you, your sister approached with a play kitchen knife.
I'm going to pretend to cut baby brother up into lots of pieces, she announced casually.  Just pretend.
Nope, I said.  We're not going to pretend that.
I'll just cut you then, she said.
Nope, I said.
Just feel the edge of the blade, Mama.  It's not sharp.
I reluctantly lifted a finger off your head.  You're right, Thisbe, it's not sharp.
Then your sister turned back to her kitchen.  I guess I'll just cut some bread then, she mumbled rather despondantly.

But perhaps my favorite incident was a recent lullaby that began with oh brother I love you and you are the most beautiful baby in the world and ended with sometimes the wolves will come to eat you and sometimes the volcano will pour fire all over you.  Maybe your sister is a psalmist at heart.

Daddy thinks it's best not to intervene too much in this kind of play, that it's a good and healthy way for your sister to work through these emotions.  And most of the time I think he's right.  Although, as the worrier in the family, I also see myself in an unattractive suit testifying before a jury about the early signs of sociopathy in my daughter.

As a writer, I am jealous of your sister's unfiltered access to all of her emotions.  Obviously, as adults a filter becomes necessary so that we don't sing to the grocery clerk, I said paper not plastic, paper not plastic, oh woman with the intelligence of a crayfish.  But as adults we also learn to feel shame, to feel apologetic for experiencing the darker emotions in the first place.  It is a relief--though mildly appalling--to watch these feeling wash through your sister, to hear her sing them out in a song and then put on her green velvet gloves, ready for whatever comes next.