My younger brother, Forrest, has made me laugh from the minute he was born. Literally. The first time I saw his very round, very bald head poking out of a blanket at the hospital I could not stop laughing. Don’t judge me too harshly though, people, I was four years old. My parents tell me how I stood on the tips of my red patent leather Mary Janes, wobbling over his bassinet like a trapeze artist, studying his scrunched up, bright red, little face, and tiny baby hands. I was dressed to impress in my chic new Snow White costume. It was the beginning of a great friendship and a greater fashion sense.
Oh, we have had our rough patches over the years. Plenty of them. And they were brutal. How was I to know that out of my mother’s stomach would emerge, all of a sudden, some chubby bald guy that would monopolize my parents before I could say “cheerios.” I mean, that’s a pretty abstract concept for a four year old to deal with. I went from being the baby to the older sister, and I wasn’t too pleased with it. Let’s be honest, I was a bit of a brat.
Fights grew more substantial when Forry learned to speak. We argued about anything and everything, and mom and dad were none too pleased. However, early on I realized that I played a dual role in my brother’s life. Not only was I his tormentor, I was his protector. Sure I could hassle him about eating ‘my’ cereal, but if ANYone had ANYthing negative to say about him, they were dead meat. I would not stand for it. After all, he was my brother. I have the faintest memory of watching him being pushed on the swing in the front yard. I was his guard dog, making sure his hands gripped the rope as tight as can be so he would not fall. But fall he did after a considerably stronger push, and I leapt up and ran to him, my fear probably scaring him and causing tears. I don’t remember who the pusher was, but they certainly got a talking to.
Forrest and I have similar, brilliantly witty senses of humor. I’ve taken part in so many amazing interpretive dances with him to anything from Queen to any number of musicals that my parents have embedded in our brains through constant repetition. We both go insane for Robert Goulet skits on Saturday Night Live, and have deep seated respect for Mr. Steven Seagal. We are religious followers of The Office, and could discuss Dwight Schrute for hours on end. We even have a little BeeGee’s inspired tune that we love to irritate my father with.
