The good fight.

My brother and I hardly fight. We get along just fine.

 However, I suppose our first confrontation was shortly after his conception. When my parents said that we were going to have a baby, all I had to say was “We are not.” I was convinced that nobody in our family was going to have a baby, and right there at the dinner table, I proclaimed my brother to be non-existent. Of course, nine months later and twelve days after Christmas, my brother was born. Despite my earlier objections, I was excited to have a new baby thing around the house that I could play with. As with children and playthings however, things can get nasty.

Shortly after my brother’s birth, we were entrusted to the care of a babysitter while my parents took care of farm business (a 5-year-old and 2-month-old have no place working with adults in a tobacco barn). As soon as my brother’s car carrier was sat down, the other children began swarming  around my brother like gnats on an apple. I was furious, and all I remember screaming is “Get away from my brother! Get away! Get away! He’s mine! Quit looking at him!” While I was screaming, I was thinking, “How dare these children look at my brother. The audacity.”

 I suppose that today is no different. He’s learning how to drive a car and I immediately think that the car is a death trap each time he rolls out. If he wants to take the ATV to the other farm, I have to worry about other people driving other death traps on the same road (which is probably a death trap, too).  No, I’m not my brother’s mother, but I do worry about him. No, we don’t fight or disagree often, but I fight myself quite a bit in order to let him grow up. I just hope that when he is grown up, he’ll understand that I threw awesome fits in the spirit of the good fight surrounding sisterly love.

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