Because in all reality, (from my perspective), as a child growing up, my sister WAS a big meanie. She is my older sister, and as such, it is part of her JOB to be that way, isn’t it? You ask any younger sibling what their relationship was like with their older sibling and you’ll get at least one horror story. I have had friends locked in closets, attacked with pressurized whipped cream when they’ve innocently walked into their kitchen, given noogies until they’ve given up their allowance, connived into doing extra chores under threat of telling the parents of something or another that they may or may not have done. We have all survived those moments of torment. Sure, we can forgive, but….
Ok, so let’s put it into perspective so that there is a bit of understanding here. My sister had almost four years to herself before I came along. That’s four long years of good ol’ one-on-one with mom and dad. Then all of a sudden, this helpless, immobile, drooling, poop machine comes along and the older sibling has to get diapers, and grab the bottle and stop making so much noise. I think it might be handy if mothers and fathers from now on, as soon as the second child is born, say to the older sibling, “You’re right. This new baby is a complete pain in the ass and you are stuck dealing with the consequences of our night of reckless fornicating.” That way, if that is said, then there might not be as much animosity towards the fresh little gas-making monster. There might not be this innate desire and yearning to get revenge and spend the rest of their lives making the younger sibling’s existence feel like it was all just a big, big mistake. Uh, can I get a return ticket back into my mother’s uterus please? I’ll come back out when the chances of having to drink toilet water are next to nil. Thanks.
But I think in my case, it was a bit more than that. I have thought long and hard about big events that have happened in my life, and for every single one of them, my sister was there, right beside me whether she wanted to be or not. Before I was attacked by that big Irish wolf hound, it was my sister that was holding my hand, encouraging me to not be afraid while we walked towards the bus stop. When we were chased by a bear, I was with my sister. (She still teases me to this day about saying, “Wait for meeeeeee!”). When I cut my heel off of my foot in a bike spoke, I was with Teresa. It was Teresa that taught me how to ride the big purple Harley bike. Teresa was with when we came face to face with a wolf. We were walking back from Brownies. Teresa stood up for me when Baba wanted me to eat my oatmeal (…it was yucky, homemade by Baba-oatmeal, not the good stuff full of sugar and raisins and cinnamon. She probably put cod liver oil in it for crying out loud.) But Teresa told Baba that I was allergic to oatmeal and kinda smiled a bit while she said it. When our babysitter went AWOL, Teresa grabbed me and locked us both in the bathroom until our parents came home. We both ran around the yard together, talking to cows and horses, trying to figure out what the heck was wrong with us when an auntie “accidentally” gave us “chocolate milk” (AKA Kahlua and milk). Wow! We had our first drunken experience together! Where ever Teresa went, whatever she was doing, I was with her. I was ALWAYS WITH HER.
And I certainly wasn’t innocent either. I annoyed the shit out of her. I ate her lip gloss. Let me tell you, there is a huge difference between the taste and smell of Avon strawberry bubblegum lip gloss. I killed her tadpoles, days before they turned into frogs. I thought they would like to smell nice, so I put Avon’s “Sweet Honesty” perfume in their water. With another batch or tadpoles, I wanted to see what they would look like swimming on cement. Fortunately, those ones made it back in to the bucket unscathed. I would borrow things and not put them back in exactly the right spot. How was I to know she was OCD about the order of her clothing in her closet? I scratched her 45 records. I bent the pages of her Archie comic books. I ate the last something or another because I wasn’t capable of reading her mind and knowing that she was going to have that as a snack before bed that night. I copied her all the time. Everything she did, I did. If she wore stripes, I wore stripes. If she permed her hair, I permed my hair. (Oh man, did I ever perm my hair.)
For the most part, I look back on our times together under the same roof and I laugh. I remember when Teresa braided my whole head of hair into small thin braids and then we waited until the next day to take them out and I had the best Rasta hair any little Bob Marley wannabe could ask for. There was the time we spent the day sweeping off a frozen pond so that we could go skating in the middle of the woods in the evening. There was the time the motor on the boat kicked out on my parents and they had to paddle all the way back to the camp sight, and Teresa and I kept them entertained with our amazing ability to create entertaining songs instantaneously, and sing them really, really loud. Can you believe that we made a song up where the only words are “Oooon-ya”? I can still sing it to this day. Along with the “Where’s my elastic?” song and “Wanna buy some girl guide cookies” song. We used to sit up in the livingroom until all hours of the night tape recording ourselves. We’d make up goofy interview scenarios, or completely annihilate soap operas and other shows that were on the air in the 80’s. I still have those tapes somewhere. And we danced, and danced, and danced to the records my dad used to buy and I would watch Teresa’s long brown hair sway to Donna Summers or Anita Ward and wish I was her. I adored her. I idolized her. I wanted to be just like her. Isn’t that what younger siblings do?
And look at us now. We certainly have our differences of opinions, and definitely live different lifestyles. And even though we grew up in the same home, we have a different outlook on those events. No amount of persuasion or discussion is going to change the fact that Teresa had no choice but to torment me, and I had no choice but to take it. We’re sisters and that’s what sisters do, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I love you, Teresa.
Psst. Hey Teres, remember this one?
“HEY, EVERYBODY! IT’S THE SOUPY-ROCK SHOW!” hahahaha
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