Two Halves of My Heart

VFJ Pilates | Musings

Sometimes I wonder how two children, raised under the same roof, can be so completely different, and how those differences fill my world with both chaos and calm.

She is the more vocal, the more boisterous child. She cannot sit still. She wears her skates in the house permanently and watches those silly YouTube videos with squeaky voices that drive me mad. She climbs over the back of the sofa, jumps up and down, and constantly seeks physical contact, but she twitches and jiggles until I get motion sickness and headaches. She likes to lie on top of me, but I get too hot. It is an age thing, and she will not lie still once there.

She will not leave the cat alone, and we may not see her all evening when he is not here. She does not like being on her own or apart from me, so putting her to bed can be tricky, especially when he is not here. She is a morning person and I am not. I cannot have a snack without her stealing some of it. She likes slime and wants me to play with it with her, but I cannot stand touching icky things. She has rarely been on her own, being a second child, so she struggles to play by herself and demands more attention, more participation.

She will say no almost every time I ask her to do anything. No matter what mood she is in, she rushes around without thinking properly and hurts herself all the time. She does tasks hurriedly and haphazardly and does not even get her washing inside her room, let alone into the basket. She seems to hate all the treats I love, nuts and caramel. She likes K-pop. She steals my coffee.

I adore her. I think she is amazing. She is already her own little person, sassy, stubborn, sure of what she likes and wants, and never afraid to say no. She is beautiful and petite, leans towards the gothic side of fashion just like I do, and loves to wear black. Her pale skin looked incredible with her Hallowe'en zombie eyes, which she insisted on doing herself.

She gives the best hugs, always unprompted, I never need to ask. I love that she still likes me to scratch her back, pat her bum, or rub her tummy like when she was a baby, little comfort things I also enjoy, that bring moments of connection in a life where I can no longer trim her nails or take her for a haircut. She loves sparkles, glitter, and fairy lights, and she reminds me so much of myself in my youth, a “fluffy goth”. She loves foxes, cats, and snow leopards, and will be over the moon when I show her the latest fox photos or cat videos I have saved.

She does not feel the cold, she sleeps naked even in winter, so she will not complain when I open the sliding door later for some air. I love choosing gifts for her, I just pick what I would love, but in blue or fox-themed, and I know she will adore it. She still holds my hand on the way to school. And though she is worried about moving house, she seems at peace as long as she is with me. She cannot be swayed by a “brother free night,” by the promise of staying up late with her tablet, or by nagging. If it is no, it is no. She is happy just being with me even when I am working and taking classes.

She is thoughtful, she is kind, and sometimes she will stroke my head in return. She never gets a snack or drink without getting something for him as well. She still loves helping, sometimes even asks for jobs. She will sit and do diamond painting with me or a puzzle instead of watching her tablet.

She will try any food and loves similar vegetables like broccoli. She loves coffee.

She is my last. My little girl. And she is loved.

He is very different. He hates exercise of any form, and I cannot find a way to connect with him through it, not the gym, not running, not dance. He never wants to do anything, go anywhere, or leave the house. He only wants to watch his phone and play games. He dislikes all vegetables except cold, cooked, mashed carrots.

He does not want to write anything, and when he was younger, he could not see why he should learn to read. He thinks I make him do extra school work just to be mean. He tells me nothing but seems to tell his dad everything. He will not shower and he is not even a teenager yet. He will not change his knickers or his socks. He takes one sock off in the evening and leaves it on the living room floor. He never tidies up after himself, does not understand why he needs to help with chores or learn how to cook.

He does not really like doing my hobbies such as diamond painting or puzzles. When we play games, he talks to me like I am thick; he is competitive, even mean sometimes, seeking me out in games to defeat me. He steals my Pepsi Max Cherry.

I miss him when he is not here. I am so proud of him. He is amazing, he is smart, and he is sensible. He never forgets, and though he will do anything for an easy life, I know that beneath it he is thoughtful. He will agree to anything, say anything, just to be left alone to watch his tablet or phone. He loves Snickers bars, caramel, and late night treats. He loves horror games and strange shows, though not too scary or too weird. He does not need physical contact, just proximity. As long as I am nearby, he is content.

He is a night owl, definitely not a morning person, our rhythms are in sync. He never gets mad that I say knickers instead of underpants. He lies still. He loves the cat in the quiet way cats prefer, and because of that, she adores him almost as much as she does me. He is definitely the secondary human in our house. When we camp in the living room, she is just as likely to curl up with him as with me, and during the day, she sleeps on his pillow.

He has a wickedly dry sense of humour and a cheeky, sarcastic streak, just like me. He notices when I am sad and asks if I am okay. He is happy if I simply come upstairs with him when he goes to bed and kiss him goodnight, no fuss, as long as it is done. He loves when I bring him late night snacks. He shows me funny YouTube videos. He spoils his sister and gives in to her more than anyone else does.

He loves to draw and take photos. He adores his little cousin and plays with her endlessly when she visits. He says yes to my parents even when he does not want to, because he loves them and never wants them to think otherwise. He never gets mad when people mistake him for a girl; sometimes he does not even correct them. He tells me it does not matter, we likely will not see them again. But he never gets annoyed when I do correct them. I think he deserves to be recognised, even if he is gracious about it.

He loves my kind of music, sometimes the heavier the better. He grumbles when he does a task, but he does it promptly and properly.

He is my first. My baby. And he never tells me off for calling him that.

Their differences can be exhausting at times, but they also fill my world with balance. One is chaos and energy; the other, calm and quiet. One pushes me to move, the other reminds me to slow down. Between them, they teach me more about patience, love, and acceptance than I ever thought possible.

I would not have them any other way. They are so different, yet both so utterly mine.

— Victoria

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Sources:

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