I tried really hard to not let Tov feel like he’s lost a mother when Woori was born.
The first time he met Woori at the hospital, I made sure she was in the bassinet, not in my arms. I held him and cuddled him and gave him lots of attention. I still bake with him as much as he wants. When I’m nursing Woori and he’s around, I am pushing toy cars on the arms of the nursing chair with him, singing songs with him, reading him books. I leave Woori in the car when I drop him off and pick him up at school, so that he has my full attention and I’m not hip-hugging him goodbye or hello.
But things have changed. I don’t put him to bed as much anymore; David does that. I don’t greet him when he first wakes up; David does that. I don’t give him baths; David does that. I’m not the one pushing his wagon when we go on walks; David does that.
Having two young kids under 3 is kind of like being single parents in the same household, each assigned to one kid. Honestly, it’s helped assuage some of the resentment I’ve had towards David about unequal parental duties, but at the cost of losing undivided time with Tov. When I am taking care of Tov, it’s almost always with Woori sitting on my lap, or me shuttling from one kid’s urgent need to the other’s.
So as much as I’ve tried, Tov is sensing the loss. He’s overall a very affectionate, sweet big brother— he loves kissing and hugging Woori, even though half the time he’s either squishing or head-butting or chokeslamming her, all in the name of brotherly affection. For the first several months, he didn’t show signs of jealousy. He would forget about her, then obsess over her, then run off to his own thing again— all the normal classic toddler narcissism, in which he has little emotional and mental capacity to consider anyone else but himself. But never jealousy.
And then. It’s starting.
Woori is now five months, and around the mid-four month mark, Tov all of a sudden started hitting her— not unintentionally in the spirit of fun, but willfully, deliberately, spitefully. I can see the shift by the expression in his face. It’s not hee hee look what I’m doing! but I’ll show you! He’s not giggling but serious— his lips pursed, his eyes hard, his brows snapped close with intent.
And there’s no guile or sneakiness about it, either. He doesn’t do it behind our backs but when we are watching. As if to make a point.
One morning, I was trying to nurse Woori to sleep when I saw him stomping into the room, his palm up straight and hard like a paddle. He comes stomp stomp stomping with a purpose over to us, and while I’m watching, while I’m telling him to step away, raised that palm up and smacked Woori over the head. Not once, but again and again, smack smack smack! I fruitlessly told him to stop it, trying to lift Woori out of the way, until by the third smack I had to physically push him, and he fell back on his bottom.
“I told you to STOP!” I yelled at him, and he stared up at me in amazement. Then he lifted his chin up to the sky like a wolf and howled. Fat globes of tears ran down his cheeks as he sobbed with sorrow, and I felt both sad and tickled at his theatric, but also very real and sincerely felt, emotions.
By then Woori was also wailing, startled awake from having had her head slapped in the middle of a drowsy feed. I shushed her as fast as I can, then put her down and picked up Tov and comforted the other heartbroken kid. She quieted down quickly, but Tov needed a longer cuddle. He didn’t need words from me about not to hit his sister— he hears that all the time— he just needed a hug that gave him both my arms and both my eyes.
Oh, how he sobbed. Like he had lost his mother, though he doesn’t understand that, doesn’t understand how and why he feels this way, cannot articulate it to me or to himself. It is a tough age to suddenly become a big brother, to share your parents with someone smaller and needier than you are, even though you are still very small and needy yourself.
I, too, was a big sister, though now at 37, I can’t remember how I felt when my parents brought home a newborn baby brother. I must have had big feelings then too, confusing and terrible feelings, but none of those feelings have left a mark on me 35 years later, so I know Tov will be fine, but I also know that right now, all these changes is a freaking big deal to him.
So I try. I try not to get mad at him when he mistreats his sister. I try not to have big reactions, which I suspect is what he wants— attention, any kind of attention, even the bad ones. I teach him to shake Woori’s hand instead of punching her, to cycle her legs instead of kicking her, and he seems to enjoy that. Now whenever he hits her, I look at him and he amends his behavior by shaking her hand, looking up at me for approval.
Still, I know he’s jealous. When I give Woori anything, Tov snatches it away. I give her a rattler; he wants it. I give her a teething toy; he wants it. I give her a wooden bus; he drops everything and rushes over to grab it out of her hands. I give her a ladle, then a spoon, then a Tupperware lid; he snatches them one by one away until he’s amassed a hill of items that he doesn’t care for other than the fact that he doesn’t want his sister to have it.
Poor Woori. Right now she’s defenseless, and doesn’t know even to protest when her oppa rudely wrestles her toys away from her little fingers. But one day she’s gonna fight back. Like the time when Tov rolled over her and her hands closed over his thick tufts of hair and pulled hard, eliciting yelps of pain from her brother.
Did I tell Woori to stop it? No, no I didn’t. Because Tov kind of deserved it, and he needs to know his jealous bouts have consequences.
Tov, you gotta watch out. Woori’s not gonna take this lying down for much longer.
Writing for Sophia 