By Jillian Marshall

Before the pandemic, my family of four ate our meals in different rooms of the house. My husband would sit behind the closed glass office doors, eating spaghetti on his lap with our three-year-old daughter, while I fed peas to our one-year-old son at the dining-room table. This was one of the many accommodations we made for our daughter because, within the first few months of our son’s life, she became afraid of him. Our son triggered a response of fear and avoidance in her. Babies were loud, and to her, that was scary.

Car rides were triggering. Our daughter worried our son would cry, even though ironically he rarely did. Instead, her own anticipatory tears would set him off until they both cried, echoing each other. We’d pull over to the side of the road, unable to drive with their screams reverberating in our ears. Once I held my daughter’s hand as we walked the sidewalks of an unfamiliar suburban neighborhood, while my husband drove our son around until he fell asleep, exhausted from the commotion.

If our son played in the basement, our daughter wouldn’t go near it. She’d hide in her room two floors above because his new rollercoaster toy made too much noise. He squealed with delight as he rode the train down the track. Even his laughter made her afraid.

At one point it got so bad that she would cover her eyes when she was in the same room as him. At a loss, we read books about anxiety and saw a total of four different therapists, not including my own. We got unsolicited advice from family and friends who told us we were being too soft by letting her eat alone or retreat to her room. We nodded politely and ignored it. Of course, we questioned everything. But we knew we couldn’t force it.

Sometimes in the hard moments, I’d find patience deep down I didn’t know I had. Other times the weight of it broke me. My heart sank when I’d see pictures of smiling siblings on Instagram or watch them playing at the playground. I searched the internet for similar stories, only finding articles about how adjusting to a new sibling takes time. This was how the first therapist explained it too.

When the next therapist said the two of them just might never be close, we balked and then wondered if she was right. We worried about our son too. As he got older, would he feel rejected? Was he internalizing it already? At one point, my husband and I considered, only half-jokingly, having another baby so our son could have someone to play with.

Then, in March 2020, we spent every waking hour together trapped in our house. There was no escaping each other or the anxiety. Weeks of the same routines were unnerving, and our family’s separation became even starker as the whole world went into isolation too. But the shutting down of everything else meant that we only had each other, which turned out to be something.

The first time the four of us all played together was three weeks into lockdown. We came up with an idea to have an elaborate tea party with our daughter’s stuffed animals, the catch being that her brother had to come too. She reluctantly agreed. The preparations lasted all day—we connected colorful foam mats, folding them into a wobbly table, and set out paper cups and plates, while our daughter made name tags for each stuffy.

She used each new planning detail as an avoidance tactic, doing everything possible to delay the party. Finally, hours later, the four of us sat down for tea. She engaged more with her stuffies than her brother, but she was in the same room, playing next to him and not running away. It was almost as if we were a regular family.

Around this time we found our fourth therapist. She led us through exposure therapy, coming over in a mask to facilitate play between the kids. She gave us strategies and made us feel like despite everything, we were doing a good job.    

In June, a friend let us stay at their Airbnb in South Dakota for a few days and we were grateful for the chance to escape. We wanted nothing more than to enjoy a beautiful summer night together outside. Desperate to enjoy the evening, we offered an ice cream bribe. We planned to eat double scoops of chocolate and strawberry on sugar cones with rainbow sprinkles on the back porch. Eager but apprehensive, our daughter spent hours deliberating. Finally, she agreed.

Watching the sun sink in the pale blue sky, we enjoyed dessert together on the red-stained deck. Our daughter looked tense but focused on licking her ice cream as it melted around the cone, while our son, almost two, blissfully ate his, oblivious to the magnitude of this moment. My husband and I beamed but didn’t say anything, careful not to burst the bubble.

Even with each hopeful step, I felt uneasy. One wrong move might send us right back into old habits. It took almost two years to get to where we are now. But, today our two kids are inseparable. They create elaborate make-believe games lasting for hours, like “hospital” in the empty bathtub with their stuffed animals or Calico Critters in the basement. Posters she made with the words “I love you,” line the wall above his bunk bed.

Recently we discovered our daughter has auditory processing disorder, which helps explain much of her struggle. I wished we had known sooner, if, for no other reason, it would have been comforting to have an explanation for why things were so hard.            

But now, I am only grateful. I could have never predicted how much my heart would grow in appreciation for their relationship. Of course, they have their disagreements, like all siblings do. More often, though, they see the best of themselves in each other, as brother and sister, and best friends.

I pinched myself as they begged for their first sleepover together last year. She set up her pink sleeping bag on the floor of his room, cozy beside the crib he was still sleeping in. They compromised on whose nightlight to use and if they’d listen to a sleep story. Their excitement was unmatched. I knew they wouldn’t sleep well and that was just fine. 

Jillian Marshall is a literacy teacher and education writer who lives with her husband and two kids in Denver, Colorado. She loves to read, especially children’s books, run, and write about motherhood. You can connect with her here. 

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