NASA

Three days after my parents brought my sister home from the hospital; I came to my mother in the kitchen and  said, “Remember when you brought that baby home and I didn’t like her?” That’s all it took. Three days of holding out until I surrendered to being completely infatuated with my sister. She is three years younger than me, but from the way I talk about her you would think she was ten years old. I realize she is an adult, but hard as I try, I just don’t see her that way. I see the little girl posing in trash cans and with our dogs because our parents made the mistake of giving us idiots a disposable camera. I see the girl who had to have her stuffed animals lined up perfectly on her bed. I could write a sweet, emotional blog about her, but I do that every other blog. In honor of our relationship- I think it would be more genuine if I told it like it is.

Court was nine years old, in third grade and growing a little too big for her britches (I’m the older sister I can say that). I was twelve and we were outside doing our weekly Wednesday chore. Raking up the dog poop and taking out the trash. I hated this chore because, well because I hate poop, but also because she was so much smaller than me so when we would carry the trash cans to the street I would have to do all the work. My side would be tilted up because I was actually carrying it, and her side was so much lower the trash can would hit me in the ankle the entire walk down the driveway. I would always yell at her to pick her side up and she would always get mad and twist her determined little face up. She would grab the trash can with both hands and try to lift it up as high as she could. It was never high enough but dang it if that little girl didn’t try…. We were usually both so irritated about this chore we would start arguing instantly. This particular Wednesday was windy and cold. We decided to use our technique (we had a few) where one of us held the snow shovel (my sister) while the other one (me) raked the dog poop onto it. Court was getting mouthy (once again, I’m older so I can say mouthy) and she made me mad. One minute she was running her mouth, and knowing her she probably hit me with the rake, and the next minute I took the entire shovel and threw it on her. She went screaming into the house and to this day I laugh hysterically every time I think of her running and yelling, “She threw poop on me mom!” My mother actually believed me that the wind did it, and for once in a million fights, I actually got away with something.

I was eleven and my sister was eight. Our Dad worked nights and would sleep a couple of hours in the day, then get up till my mom got home and he could go back to sleep. My sister and I were on the same track, so we were off for six weeks every few months together. By the end of the first week we were over each other, so although we had no one else to play with and had to get along for the sake of boredom, we would fight like crazy. One day she made me mad over who knows what, probably a debate over watching Where in the World is Carmen San Diego and Saved by the Bell, so I told her I as running away. I packed six dollars and three pairs of socks in a back pack and made it to the end of the walkway before she came outside after me, crying and begging me not to go. The second I saw her sad face it was over and I was making sure my sister wasn’t sad. Ninety percent of the time growing up I was the one making my sister cry, but the second that she did, I would do anything in this world to make her stop, I still would.

My sister was a freshman and I as a senior in high school. She came home one day and said this girl, who at one time was her friend, stole her shoes and she saw them in her locker. My sister has no problem confronting anyone, about anything, but the fact that she had handled the problem for herself didn’t matter to me. I went up to this 80 pound freshman girl the next day at school and in front of all her friends started yelling at her for stealing my sister’s shoes. I told my sister about it later and she was entirely un-amused. She let me know she had already handled it, and I let her know I didn’t care, she was my sister and I wasn’t having that. Then she made fun of me for being a loser senior going after a freshman. But that’s what my sister doesn’t understand; I would go after Goliath for her. If those were my shoes I would have convinced myself they weren’t, I would never confront someone for myself; but I will for her, even if she doesn’t want me too.

I remember little memories from growing up with her all the time. We have our own sense of humor, our own ebb and flow that comes from years of sharing a room and a seatbelt in our dad’s old truck. Whether it was good or bad, big or small, scary or fun, we did it together. Our age difference put us in entirely different spots in our life once I hit junior high, and we haven’t met back in the middle yet; but I have the best memories of our elementary school years. She was my best friend, still is. She was always pissing me off, I would put together a stage set for whatever play I was making up, and it never failed; by the time I got the stage set up she was bored; when it was my turn to be the customer instead of the order taker, she was over it; I finally get to be the teacher and she doesn’t want to play school anymore. We would be coloring or playing with our dolls, or “prank” calling businesses by calling them and asking them what time they open, and she would say, “I am going to go get a drink,” ten minutes later I’d find her in the living room sitting with my dad. She annoyed me, she never wanted to share her clothes with me, when her friends came over and I talked to them she would get mad; but she is my best friend and favorite person in the world.

It is my turn to drive her crazy. I text her every other day telling her not to drink and drive (she is on her way to work), asking her to eat with me (in the middle of her day), making her talk to me and tell me all about her life (I stopped by unexpectedly and she is in a hurry to get ready for work). I know I boss her around. I am bossy, and over-protective, and defensive, and much more “second mom” than “older sister”; and it probably drives her crazy, but she has no idea what it’s like to be the older sister. To worry about your baby sister who isn’t a baby anymore. To know the stupid mistakes you have made and things you have put yourself through, and how you would give just about anything to protect her from that.

I don’t know what it’s like to be a parent, but if it’s anything like being an older sister it is an unconditional love that makes room for forgiveness, respect, and a whole lot of annoyance. She may be old enough to fight back now, to put me in my place when I need it, but to me, she will always be the blue eyed baby sitting across the table from me, making up commercials to each food item on our lunch plate, while our dad slept. Just me and her, in our own ebb and flow, talking away about who knows what. And then- I punch her. The end.