MSI Press Blog

  Sibling rivalry is part of family life—an ancient dance of competition, comparison, and love. But when one child has special needs, that dance changes rhythm. The usual push‑and‑pull of siblings becomes layered with protection, resentment, pride, and empathy. It’s rivalry with deeper roots. 1. The Uneven Spotlight In families with a child who needs extra care, attention naturally tilts toward that child. Medical appointments, therapies, and emotional support can leave siblings feeling unseen. They may not resent their brother or sister—they may resent the imbalance. Parents often walk a tightrope between tending to one child’s needs and reassuring the others that they still matter. 2. The Protector Instinct Many siblings of children with special needs develop a fierce loyalty early on. They defend, explain, and advocate. Rivalry softens into guardianship. Yet that protective role can also feel heavy—especially when it replaces ordinary childhood competition. The sibling becomes p...

  Precerpt (excerpt from book prior to publication):  Raising God's Rainbow Makers  (Mahlou)   I once thought of Shane as my most “ordinary” child. He was a late walker, a late talker, and content to observe the world quietly. But when he began reading at 23 months—likely earlier, if I’m honest—I had to revise that assumption. He wasn’t slow. He was simply unfolding on his own timeline. When the fall semester began in 1980, Shane had just turned three. I was deep into my doctoral work at the university, which had a well-regarded lab school with a preschool program. Perfect, I thought. Lizzie was in elementary school, Noelle was thriving in a special needs preschool, and Shane had spent the previous year in a different center alongside her. This setup would be convenient: drop Shane off, climb the hill to my classes, and reunite at day’s end. On his first day, we parked in the graduate student lot and counted the 100 stairs up to the lab school together. Shane knew ...

  After Doah was released home from the neonatal unit, where he stayed for three weeks, given his premie status, life returned to normal. At least, normal for the Mahlou family. I returned to work while continuing to nurse Doah. As usual, everyone watched out for everyone else, Lizzie babysitting Noelle and Shane, and Noelle continuing with her special needs programming. Donnie, at that time, working on honing his photographic skills at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh (and using me for a model for his, yikes, nudes).  Dr. Paul, Doah's pediatrician, who knew the family and me well from all the kids, especially Noelle and her special needs, said Doah would do better at home and promised to release him as soon as he gained one ounce, which he did. Hope floated like a balloon. It was so much easier having Doah home. No more trips to the hospital to nurse him. Crazy life continued on its crazy path, but at least it was a known path for us and, therefore, mostly comfortable, perhaps...

  There’s a reason I feel safe letting Doah shop at the market on his own. It’s not because he doesn’t have challenges. He does. It’s because we live in a town where the community quietly steps in to help raise him. San Ignatius is the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and the abuelitas keep the teenagers in line with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a well‑timed “Mijo, no.” They don’t hesitate to speak up, and the kids listen. Respectfully. Immediately. It’s a kind of social magic you don’t see in big cities anymore. And then there’s our priest. He is not just the Catholic priest for the Mission but also the town priest. Whether you g o to church or not, he’s everyone’s moral compass. If he sees someone misbehaving, he’ll correct them right there on the sidewalk or in the store, collar and all. People accept it because they know it comes from a place of care. But the heart of this story is the manager of our little market — the only one in town. He kn...