My sister and I are about five years apart. I often am grateful that my kids are two years apart, because they are growing up to be pretty close and I hope that they are like that in their teenage years, because right now, they’re built in friends. I know it might not always be like this. I know there are going to be times when there are going to be wars of epic proportions in this house and I’m going to have to remove doors because I’m sick of hearing them slam. And don’t think I won’t do it, dear children of mine. JUST TRY AND CROSS ME!! Sorry, I didn’t mean to get all cappy on you.
But because my sister and I were a little bit further apart in age, we were usually fighting with each other. A lot of this had to do with sibling jealousy. She was the youngest. The “baby.” And all of the older cousins and people in general would gravitate to her. Blonde little petite annoying pain in the ass. Yeah, I can see how that magnetic personality would shine through. Sorry, seven-year-old jealous is coming out in me. Mental note: talk to my therapist about my early childhood feelings next week.
But there were times where we definitely would entertain each other, and actually got along. Usually though, getting along involved violence: (insert squiggly dream lines here).
Our neighbors often went away for the summer, and as it used to be, in the 80′s, they would just leave their pets home and let the neighbor kids go over there a couple of times a day to make sure they were still alive. None of this cushy, hire a professional pet babysitter, or take them to a posh pet hotel business. Rely on irresponsible children, who would go over and squat in your house all day, and eat all of your food, and watch your cable (because their cable was better than your cable, even though it was exactly the same thing).
For whatever reason, this one particular summer, I was on my mother’s shit list. And she wasn’t allowing me to watch TV, or breathe, or look in her general direction. I don’t know. My sister was in charge of the neighbors dog for a week, and therefor, we had free reign of their TV. So on this hot summer day, we basically let the dog in from the garage, and let her lounge in the air conditioning while we watched endless episodes of Saved By the Bell, or some other such nonsense.
And then things got ugly.
We decided to play this game of chicken. Not the kind you play in the pool. This particular game, you clasp hands, and then gleefully slap the backs of the other person’s hand with your free one. The purpose is to a. see how red you can make the other person’s hand, and b. get the other person to say “chicken” or “ow, motherfucker!” Whichever comes first. So it started innocently enough. Slapping hands. But the game didn’t stop there. we moved onto other limbs. Seeing how detailed we could make a handprint on the other person’s skin. We retreated to opposite couches for a bit of a reprieve, and because the commercials were over. I was (probably) immersed in Jesse Spano’s Oscar worthy performance of “When teens take diet pills” scene, when all of a sudden, I see nothing but hands, knees and elbows come flying at me in a fit fury. ”CHICKEN!” And she slaps me on the leg. She had built up momentum from hurtling through the air. The sound of the crack was deafening. Left behind on my thigh was a bright red, tiny handprint. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. I’m pretty sure I punched her in retaliation That fucker won that round…
I kind of miss her right now, and if I saw her, I would probably leave one of these little marks of love on her.