S and I are only 2 ˝ years apart and were raised together. As small children we played together and one of my earliest memories is calling for him at the front door waiting for him to come home from school. There has never been a time in my life when he wasn’t important. Over the years he patched up bloody knees, mended broken hearts and beat up bullies.
When I was writing my happy list a few days ago, it occurred to me that most of my happiest memories, and favorite stories from my childhood, involve him. He has been an ever present part of my life. My brother is gifted with a dark and dry sense of humor that enlivened our house, and appreciation for the absurd that encourages those around him to see it too.
Now this is not to say he is perfect. He’s not; the perfect big brother, quite likely, a perfect person, no. There is absolutely no one who could make me cry harder (or faster) and only my mom could make me madder. Over the years he has beat me up, threatened my life with a tire iron (but it was an empty threat and I knew it), teased me, hid my toys and shaved my dolls hair off. But know one else was EVER allow to do those kind of things, that was his job. And he made sure of it.
In S’s defense I was no angel, and I earned a good part of what he dished out. I stole his cloths, books, music, and toys. I “forgot” phone messages, cheated at board games, taunted him mercilessly, and shoved him till he shoved back, only to run screaming to our parents, “He hit me!” In other words I was his little sister.
That little sister big brother relation ship is special, when it works it is priceless, if it doesn’t I can only imagine how hurtful that must be. I’m lucky, ours works.