Brotherly love

Too close for comfort.

In every family with more than a couple of kids, someone takes the brunt of the teasing. Often the last in line inhabits the role. Being too young or small to do much about it, this child must face the reality of hand-me-downs and put downs, as just a fact of life.

My two brothers and I are each a year and a half apart. So, while I am the oldest and only girl, there was not enough real estate to garner me much leverage. Plus I was nice and a rule follower – two more drone strikes against sibling dominance.

With three siblings it’s a constant game of two on one. I was usually the one.

A little two on one. (I must be hiding.)

I admit I added fuel to the flame, like that time I tried to start a Dynamite Club in our basement.  (Remember Dynamite? Your school approved 5^th Grade magazine source of all things Happy Days and Shaun Cassidy related?).  I am still occasionally treated to the mocking I received then, about my chalk board list of club goals and the fact that a second meeting never occurred.  Let’s just say that no one gave a damn about encouraging my executive leadership skills in the 70’s.

They would watch me play with my Barbies, sarcastically imitating my story lines. Like the one where the horse-riding Dusty doll got throat cancer (so specific) so Ken could marry olympic skier Barbie without having to get a divorce (expensive). Dusty came back as her own twin and Barbie’s nemisis, so who’s kidding who? That’s like Knot’s Landing, Wisconsin awesome-style.

Sometimes I’d try to pull the older kid/parent card like when I’d try and trick them into cleaning the house to surprise our mother. I’d make it into a game called “Super Duper Cleanup” (who’s not in for that?) which entailed yelling real loud and then cleaning as fast as possible for like five minutes. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.  The younger and naive one would last a little longer, until the middle one would offer up something better, like racing marbles down the crooked porch floor.

Sometimes I would come out ahead, like when the babysitters would let me stay up later than the boys to watch Barretta, as long as I wouldn’t tell anyone she was smoking. The benefits were rare though.

If you can’t take the heat, don’t wear leg warmers.

One classic move was when they shoved me onto the first decent couch my mother ever owned. It groaned and snapped and panic overtook me. Boldly using my achille’s heel (first assume my own guilt) as a weapon against me, they managed to convince me that I had broken it. I believed this for years. Literally, years. Decades later, over alcoholic Christmas beverages, they finally fessed up to breaking it, pushing the pieces together, and scheming to make me the dupe. Mission accomplie.

They spied on my phone calls, ate like animals in front of my friends, and nicknamed me sweetie chunks (eating disorder alert).

And yet, I feel like it’s adequately prepared me for living with two more boys who blame my stir-fry for their gastrointestinal outbursts, spy on my phone calls, and won’t let me forget that I set the sports page on fire with my brunch candles.

Ability to roll with a little brotherly love? Mission accomplie.

Oh brother

The other day I had to call my brother and plead for a ride to work when my car broke down. “Lemme take a look at it,” he said, which made me laugh, because he doesn’t know much about cars.  Neither do I.  He and I also both shared some weird driving phobia early on and didn’t get our licenses when normal people do. It may have had something to do with the way our father took us out on the road and then calmly kept saying things like, “Remember, the American highway is the most dangerous place in the world” but I’m not sure. Anyway, we don’t have much else in common.

We are 18 months apart, so I don’t recall a time when he wasn’t around. My mother says I was excited about his arrival. Maybe I was just bored. He was a pot stirrer from the get go, so things got exciting right away. While I was well-behaved, my mother still talks about how she wanted to put booze in his baby bottle. I went to bed in a reasonable manner. He rocked his crib until it bashed into the wall.  We are not alike.

While a few good friends are plenty for me, he’s always been the life of the party with a zillion followers. During college, I once road tripped to his mid-sized college without notice. I roamed from one bar to the next asking if anyone had seen him.  Never once did anyone look at me crazy-like and say “Who?” Nope, they all just said, “Yeah, he was here a while ago” and pointed me down the street where I eventually tracked him down.

The story I can tell in two minutes (always botching the punch line) with him, will turn into a 30 minute saga.  It’s great when you don’t really feel like talking. Just nod and laugh once in a while and you’ll be entertained for hours. He’s really funny.

As kids, I got busted for every minor infraction while he coasted through his bumbles. I do remember my glee though, the night a police car pulled up late in our drive way.  I removed the floor grate in my bedroom, hunkered down, and listened to see which of the brothers it would be.  Ah Hah! Finally, a turn in the dog house.  But, if memory serves, he regaled everyone with his tale and talked himself out of any major punishment.

It might have been jealousy, but I think it was more a need to carve out my own niche.  I remember being furious when he decided to act in a play which was encroaching on my territory. I mean, he didn’t need to worry about me moving in on his cross-country and hockey successes.

It wasn’t just in my head either.  The other day, I ran across this old gem from our local neighborhood newspaper columnist. It was written the year I won our hometown pageant and he was writing for the sports section.

In the, “If  you’re going to feel sorry for some one this week” category comes this story.

As I walked around the streets on Saturday morning during the rendezvous events, I crossed paths with the local Miss Webster.  After recognizing her, I made the comment, “Oh,  you’re Lou’s sister.”  Sorry about that.

It seems that she has heard that comment too many times.  Not that she doesn’t care for her brother, but she seems to be getting more recognition as being his sister, than she is as being Miss Webster. Those of you who read the sport pages of this paper each week will recognize his name.  He has done some sports writing for us for a few years now, and he’s done a darned good job. With his name appearing in print week after week, his name is becoming a household word in the county.

So, while his articles in the paper have given him Journalistic fame it has also labeled members of his family as  “Lou’s mom,” Lou’s dad,” etc. Yet, Kristen, being Miss Webster holds an honor and a title that she can enjoy and be proud of.  As time passes, I’m sure he’ll hear, “Oh, you’re Miss Webster’s brother.”  I know it’ll happen.

Well buster, it didn’t happen, but I did take pride in the ridiculously gigantic trophy it brought me, which was taller than his sports trophies stacked one on top of the other. Hey, that’s something anyway.

I have one boy now and  he has four girls. I think he likes drama, so his kids tend to be the “sickest,” “naughtiest” and “funniest.”  Mine is pretty good. We are still very different.

But, come to think of it, we do share something; a similar gusto for silliness. As children, he wasn’t too macho to play dress up. He let G.I Joe hang out with Barbie. While neither of us was okay with it, he was willing to be Joseph to my Mary and believe me when I tell you, our youngest brother would never have stood for that.  Even now, while I pour my energy into themed parties, craft and movie nights, and Christmas pageants, he’s held outdoor badminton tournaments in the winter, ladies skating parties complete with disco balls, and an annual Fowl Fest. We do like to go overboard on occasion.

I certainly don’t feel competitive anymore. We are who we are and I (usually) appreciate the complimentary personalities we bring to the table. But Mr. Pot-Stirrer, I’m thinking those four teenage girls might be your payback; that and teaching them all how to drive.