Demonstrating the evolution of Frances' ego and superego against the delicious tidal pull of her id is the recurring theme of sibling rivalry with cute little Gloria, who is introduced as a newborn in the second of the Frances tales. At first Gloria is nothing but a tiny furry face in swaddling, but her influence in Frances' world is immediate and huge. As if preempting the possibility of being forgotten by demanding to be noticed, Frances escalates her bids for attention -- first she sits forlornly beneath the kitchen sink, then she marches through the living room shaking gravel in a can and singing lustily. Finally, disgusted by a lack of clean laundry and a dearth of breakfast raisins, Frances announces she'll run away. And she does, provisioned with Oreos, to a secluded spot under the dining room table until she overhears her parents' sotto voce lament regarding her absence.

As Frances' mom and dad know, love-bombing an ambivalent older sibling is the standard approach when the new child is a fairly oblivious baby. But as Gloria grows and her relationship with Frances gains complexity, Frances' sense of Gloria's personhood as well as her own gains problematic depth. In "Best Friends for Frances," Frances easily shrugs off the plaintive weeping of playmateless toddler Gloria for the greener pastures of baseball with her friend Albert -- only to have to resort to playing with Gloria after all when Albert dumps her for a "no girls" game. In "A Birthday for Frances," the title itself is a sly comment on Frances' psychological growth, since the birthday in question is Gloria's, now nearing school age. Frances' jealousy takes root in pitiful asides to her imaginary friend ("That is how it is, Alice ... your birthday is always the one that is not now"), kicks under the table and a long memory for past slights, but her grudging resolve finally disintegrates at the prospect of being the only one not to give a present to her little sister. An epic struggle ensues in Frances' tormented conscience when the cake is brought glowing to the party table. After singing under her breath, "Happy Chompo to me/is how it ought to be ...," Frances demurs, but it takes the entire party's encouragement to get her to relinquish the coveted Chompo bar in her grasp. The scene resembles nothing so much as an emergency crew coaxing someone down from a building ledge.

By the time "A Bargain for Frances" rolls around, Gloria is a person whose opinion has enough clout to sway Frances' worldview. In this penultimate Frances story, Frances is saving her allowance money (all $2.17 of it) for a real china tea set painted with blue flowers. The cunning Thelma bilks Frances out of her savings by persuading her to trade for Thelma's old plastic tea set. Though an equivocating Frances cheers herself on the walk home with another of her inimitable songs ("Plastic cups are all right too/Just as good as china"), it's Gloria's pronouncement that Thelma's tea set is "very ugly" that clarifies Frances' opinion. And it's Gloria who tips off Frances that Thelma too covets a china tea set with blue flowers -- just like the one for sale in the window of the local candy shop for $2.10 -- and moves Frances to retaliatory action.

As these dramas unfold over and over again at bedtime in my house, I'm struck just as frequently by the understated wisdom of Frances and Gloria's parents. In fact, I'm fascinated by their admirably nonchalant and sometimes seemingly retrograde parenting strategies. How was it that they learned to wield such sure authority with their children that, when a youngster stomps into the living room shaking a can of gravel, Father simply says, "Please don't do that," and the child just stops? There are no negotiations, no power struggles, no offerings of distractions or toned-down alternatives; there is no yelling. And how do they manage to stay so cool and productive in the midst of massive birthday party histrionics? Frances is known for regularly inserting a provocative comment into a conversation -- a hint, say, that another child she knows gets an outrageous allowance, or a question about the unmentionable origins of certain foodstuffs then on the dinner table -- but Father and Mother invariably deflect Frances' fishing by changing the topic without missing a beat, not to mention forgoing the indulgence of some sort of "validating conversation" straight from the parenting handbook that will eventually turn her into a whiny brat. Frances' parents understand that they're the ones in control: They're undeniably loving, but they're also firm. Consequently, their children appear to be secure, creative and ultimately kind as well as perverse and clever.

Frances' are parents who know to offer multiple kisses and pile everything from a "tiny special blanket" to a sled next to the bed of an insecure child, but they're also not afraid to tell a kid to solve her own (minor) problem when it interrupts the television show they're watching. What's more, these are parents with no neurotic attitudes toward sugar -- there's cake or chocolate pudding or some other sweet in every book, always generously applied. "You may be sure that there will always be plenty of chocolate cake around here," says Mother Badger, after Frances has already chowed down all of her Oreos under the dining room table.

And they spank. Or at least spanking is threatened in some way at some time in their household, enough so that in response to her sleepless father's grouchy question, "And do you know what will happen to you if you don't go to sleep?" Frances knows what the answer is likely to be. But the truth is, Frances' parents never get caught spanking anybody. They only float the possibility, disembodied but ominous.

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