Reflections On My Little Bro

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.