Here's a little Memoir Monday...thanks to Travis at I Like to Fish...
Doing a three-fer post today. I think I'm on crack or lack of sleep is getting the best of me...OK,OK, the only crack I've had is ass crack...and it's not like I want it all up in my face! Anyhoo...here goes the memories. Run like hell!
This one is for my brother. He is still in his thirties...asshole. He has Crohn's disease and is in the later stages os PSC liver disease (same as what Chris LaDioux had) which became a complication from the first disease. My brother is handsome, kind, very tall, generous, and the most gentle soul. Yes, I'm the worst of the two. He, for many years searched for the right person to marry...and his sister axed most of those hoes. UGH. He had bad taste. He finally landed the love of his life who accepted the turd with his terminal illnesses. After thousands of dollars and invetro help...he and his wife had a beautiful baby girl. She looks just like him. Very cute and adorable as most children come.
So, anyway, back to the memory. This one was part of the making of my brother...I helped mold him as much as I could...Don't tell him, but he has a big part of my heart...and I always felt after dad died that I had to take care of him. Before that...I was a typical, mean, big sister...
I was 7, he was 3..
In our basement in Minnesota, we had a wide open floor with smooth cement. I often liked to roller skate or ride my big three-wheeled trike down there. Now, mind you, I had a nice shiny bike outside...but there was just something about racing that three-wheeled bike around the posts that was fun. And I would like to go fast. And I thought I was Mario.
He had a little Radio Flyer trike with tassles...his very own. It wasn't as cool as my big three-wheeler. He looked up to me. I was Big Sis. I was a bitch even back then. It was too late for me. He would follow me everywhere. He would SO get in the way of my glamourous nomadic style...doing my own thing...exploring the neighborhood, yada, yada. Who wanted a kid brother taggin along? Let alone one three years old? It cramped my style.
But my mom made me. Since...forever...I remember having to take him or do things with him. UGH! He was totally dissing my style. And how could I pick up neighborhood guys with him at my side..or even look like the cool tough chick on the block. I was the blockmafia chick in the making back then. The underboss...or something. Well, anyway, I always did what I was told. Under protest, mind you.
So, one day, I was in the basement...cycling away. He was watching. He would always whine and ask me to push him fast on his trike. So i did. It was really annoying. But, I was doing my duty as Big Sis.
He kept whining and wanted to ride my big trike. I told him NO. He kept whining and whining. He was such a little whiner. So, I finally said FINE. And put him on my big trike. I left him there and taunted him from across the room.
ME: See, you can't even reach the pedals.
[Bro's feet are dangling in his sleeper (with feet) pajamas]
BRO: Push me. Push me.
ME: No. You are a big boy on my trike. Pedal.
BRO: I can't reach! Push me. Push me.
So, irritated, I did. I pushed him. Then he liked it and demanded I did it...over and over. Well, now I wanted to play Barbies. Yes, most days I made him dress like a girl, play Barbies, and be the school kid I hit with a ruler. But at this age...I wanted to be independent. I wanted him to fly...baby bird...just go play with something.
I pushed him one last time...really hard. He had a big grin, I had a bigger grin. He went flying alright...right into my dad's gun case. CRASH! It broke. Glass all over. Bro was crying like a big sissy. He didn't even get cut. I was over him being a pussy. So, I moved him and told him..."SEE. SEE. People get hurt on big trikes. Quit crying, you will get me in trouble." Then...enter THE MOTHER.
Well, needless to say...I was in the gallows for quite some time. Maybe after about 40 spankings, I would get it. I was stubborn back in those days. I think she kept spanking me because I almost killed my brother and she panicked. I didn't hate her. I just had a sore butt. And Dad was none too happy about that whole incident when he came home...or countless others to come. I was destined to become a famous criminal like Butch Cassidy or Cattle KATE. Who knew I'd become a cop. Mom always believed things like that were my fault. Didn't she know it always started with WHINING...from him? Life just wasn't fair.