I Married My Sister Part 2

My head hurt. How could I possibly have done it? Julie and I were oil and water—careers and marriage--fantasy and reality—we did not mix well.

I just sat there for another few moments, shaking my head in disbelief, not knowing what to do next. I had to verify.
Number 5 of 7, my sister Clare, nicknamed Perfect Clare by the rest of my siblings, had to know if I was right. She got along with everyone, had terrific insight, was a teacher by profession, and had a way of cutting through BS—big and small. I called her immediately.

“Hello” she picked up. “I married Julie,” I stated without preamble. Dead silence hung in the air …..—then--“Oh-my-God---You-Did”.

“How did you figure it out?” she asked.

Family dynamics are both amazing and terrifying. In my family, as in most large, Catholic families, there wasn’t a whole lot of differentiation going on. Parents didn’t try to treat children as individuals with specific strengths and weaknesses, but rather as a group whose behavior was either “good” or “bad”. If anyone was stepping out of line, they were just “going through a phase”. I am not suggesting, by any means, that this parenting style is all bad. However, if that kind of parenting wasn’t a good fit for a child, then that child just fell through the cracks.

In my family, my mother did differentiate in one way aside from good or bad. You were either “smart” or “creative”. One of those “arty types” my mother would say.

I was smart. This was a label I wrapped around myself with great ease and comfort. After all, my dad was exceptionally smart, my mom above-average smart. Why wouldn’t I take comfort in being part of the in-crowd. Clare, Marty, and I were in the smart category, along with Mom and Dad. Julie, Dave and Andi were the artists—taking after admired members of my Dad’s side of the family. Matt was another story all together.

As I grew, I reveled in smart. Excelling in school was expected and achieved. Not a problem. However, whenever a painting, sculpture craft, or piece of creative writing came home, it wasn’t just praised—the praise was accompanied by something else. Awe. A tone reserved for something my mother felt she didn't possess—and therefore revered.

One year my junior, and the only girl-girl combination in my family, I was smart; Julie creative. Without even realizing it, I knew I wanted it. Had to have it. How could I let her have all that admiration? The only problem being that I didn’t have a speck of talent in me.

Somewhere along the line, my subconscious decided.

I know, I’ll marry it.

THEN I’ll be whole.