I don’t remember sibling rivalry between myself and my sisters when we were kids. @MondayBlogs Because they were five and seven years older than me, they went their way together and I was somewhat akin to an only child. My parents referred to them as “the girls.” I really didn’t know where I fit into this picture. I do know I often felt lonely and excluded because the interests and activities they shared were more often than not of no appeal to a sister who was so much younger. But sibling rivalry? Perhaps they experienced it with each other, but not with me.

‎ My problem was that they were companions. All I had was my imaginary friend, Pokie. My most frequently used expression as a kid was hands down, “The girls won’t let me play with them.”

My mother would explain that they were “big girls” and liked to do things I’d enjoy in a few years. Other times, she would insist that they include me in their activities. That was probably worse because, without a word, they made it obvious that they didn’t want me around.

Decades passed. They both married and had babies while I was still in high school. By the time I became a mother, the cousin closest in age to my son was ten years old. It really wasn’t until I became an empty nester that we had similar lifestyles. All of us had grown children and lived alone with our husbands. And that’s when the gloves came off.

Because we all lived in different parts of the country, our visits were infrequent. There is no question that my sisters and I love each other. But, unfortunately, we often have a difficult time being together. Maybe because they were long gone from the family home before I hit puberty, we never really learned to live together. Maybe not wanting me around when they were kids had developed into an unbreakable habit.

It was only at this point in our lives that my sisters expressed how they had felt about me in childhood. A few simple quotes should convey the message.

“You were the favorite.”

“You could do no wrong.”

“You got away with murder.”

Despite the fact that spending more than a day or two together appeared to be our limit, I developed a habit of joining Sister #2 on one of the numerous vacations she took each summer to a beautiful island off the coast of New England. Despite the fact that one year our visit went particularly poorly, I expected to return the following year. When the time came, she told me, “You’re not coming to the island the week I’m going to be there. The island is mine that week.”

The island was hers? Like a child with a toy. Or without one.

I stayed home. I never like to be where I’m not wanted, and it wasn’t worth the risk of the sisterly explosion that was certain to occur.

On a recent visit with Sister #1, she told me that when she was nine, “Mom never had time for me because she was always taking care of you or playing blocks with you.”

“I was two!” I retaliated. “I’m sure she played blocks with you when you were two! And, seriously, did you want to play blocks with Mom when you were nine?”

My sister directed her gaze toward the evening news, indicating the conversation was over. I wondered how a 65-year-old woman could still be carrying such a grudge.

Our greatest dichotomy is our struggle to achieve the Worst Husband Award for our mates.

“(My husband) is driving me out of my mind since he retired. All he does is play golf and drink at the clubhouse,” Sister #1 said.

“Are you kidding? At least he has interests that get him out of the house. (My husband) spends most of his time blasting FOX News. It’s unbearable,” Sister #2 retorted.

“Well my husband has had early onset dementia for years,” I chimed in. “I don’t know how you can possibly complain when I’m the one who has to take care of him and every household responsibility.”

“Oh, please,” said Sister #2. “No doctor ever gave him that diagnosis. It’s just your opinion. He’s fine.”

“You don’t live with him,” I snapped,

“You don’t live with (name of respective husband)” they responded in unison.

When it comes to sibling rivalry later in life, nobody wins.

Financial security (or lack thereof) is another major issue. While we enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle while growing up, we’ve all had our financial ups and downs as adults. The three of us seem to be fighting a contest in which the winner is the one whose life is the hardest – waiting for the applause meter to rise as it did on the 1950s TV show Queen for a Day.

When I told Sister #1 my husband and I were planning a weekend getaway, she responded, “We don’t go on vacations. We’re not rich like you.”

I wondered how she could possibly consider us “rich” when we both lost our jobs in 2008 and our income today is my husband’s Social Security and what I’m able to make as a writer, a profession that falls into the category of starving artists.

I love them and I’m glad I have them. But I wish we had gotten the sibling rivalry out of the way as kids. Sibling rivalry as adults far exceeds miniscule issues like fighting over a toy, a friend, or what to watch on TV. It seems we’ve grown older, but we’ll never grow up.