Lately, it’s become a common scene: my nine-year-old son, Noah, waiting outside his sister Mia’s room, engrossed in a game on his tablet. When I ask him what he’s up to, the answer is always the same—he’s simply waiting. He’s waiting for Mia to finish her FaceTime chats with friends, after which she promised she’d play with him.
I suggest he join me while I tackle my work instead of sitting alone on the floor, but he just shrugs. He’s perfectly okay waiting for his sister, who is nearing 11.
I always knew this moment would arrive, when she would feel too grown up to build elaborate LEGO worlds or engage in imaginative play with her little brother. I understood that one day, her friends and the allure of her private space would draw her away from the colorful playroom filled with toys. I knew my son would linger in the world of superheroes and LEGO figures for a while longer while she transitioned into adolescence.
What I didn’t anticipate was the heartache of watching him lose his playmate or the desperation I’d feel to cling to those fleeting moments when she still chose to play with him.
My children share a close bond—both in age and emotional connection. They have been each other’s steady presence amidst life’s upheavals. Together, they have faced challenges most kids never encounter: their father’s cancer diagnosis, his eventual passing, and now, their mother’s struggles as a single parent during a pandemic.
Yet, as Mia steps into a world that Noah feels excluded from, I can see he’s lost without her, uncertain how to entertain himself and perhaps not even wanting to play alone.
He tries to negotiate. He promises Mia that if he gives her ten minutes of solitude, she will come and play afterward. If he watches her favorite show, then next time, they can return to that pretend game they started weeks ago. I even notice him attempting to enjoy the things she’s becoming interested in—video games and shows popular with her friends—all in an effort to maintain their bond.
Of course, he’ll never admit it. If you ask him, he’ll roll his eyes and say his big sister is annoying and that he doesn’t care what she does. To be fair, their sibling relationship isn’t all sunshine and rainbows; they bicker constantly, with Noah often pushing Mia’s buttons. But despite the squabbles, he’s still there, waiting outside her door, negotiating for more of her time.
Sometimes, he even enlists my help to coax her out of her room. While I recognize it’s perfectly age-appropriate for her to want to text friends and play online, I can’t help but cheer for Noah’s cause. I rationalize that pretend play is beneficial for Mia’s development and too much screen time isn’t ideal. Ultimately, like him, I want to cling to the moments I have with her. I yearn to hear them giggling and creating their own adventures together for a little while longer.
Mia doesn’t complain much. She usually agrees to play with Noah, indulging him out of kindness and helping me out since when he’s occupied with her, I can tackle my endless list of single-mom tasks. However, even as she plays with him, it’s less about being a kid and more about stepping into the role of a “mother’s helper.”
This shift—that she’s playing with him to assist me—reflects a maturity that goes beyond simply wanting to retreat into her room with friends. We can lure her out with requests to “go play” because too much screen time isn’t healthy, but the reality is, she’s growing up even during those moments. Noah and I have to come to terms with that, even as we mourn the “little kid” version of her that is slipping away. After all, the “big kid” version of her is pretty remarkable too.
I have a strong intuition as a mother that their sibling relationship will endure through time. However, it’s currently changing, and all I can do is watch Noah wait outside Mia’s door, hoping for a moment when she’ll open it and his playmate will return, even if just for a few hours. I also find myself waiting for the day when they’ll both be hidden behind closed doors, building worlds and lives that don’t require my presence as much—an inevitable heartache that comes with a new normal, yet one that still feels like a loss of days gone by.
It’s simply the way of life. Even though I’ll always miss their “little kid” selves, I look forward to witnessing what lies ahead.
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Summary:
As my daughter transitions into her tween years, I find it heartbreaking to witness my son waiting for her to play, as she increasingly seeks the company of friends. Their bond, once filled with shared play, is shifting, and while I understand it’s a normal part of growing up, I can’t help but feel a sense of loss for their childhood connection. Balancing my desire for them to maintain their sibling relationship with the reality of her maturation is a complex journey, one that evokes both nostalgia and anticipation for what lies ahead.