A lthough I love my youngest sister dearly, growing up with her was as irritating as finding a sibling sitting on your bed, wearing your favorite shirt or reading your diary.
Misti was the bane of my existence. She went through my things, crowded my space, and inserted, “I’m going to tell Mom!” into every situation regardless of whether or not I had done anything worthy of telling Mom.
That girl scribbled on my homework, used my makeup and, for reasons we may never understand, would lick her finger and stick it in my ear as she called out, “Wet Willy!”
As a loving sister and all-around good person, I’d put up with Misti for as long as I could. I’d ignore her antics, pretend she didn’t exist, and then I’d blow my stack.
It was a tough job, but a sister has to do what a sister has to do.
Misti would then react, as youngest siblings are programmed — by crying. Not just any form of crying, you understand, but a full-blown, deep-down, from-the-tips-ofher toes squeal that could be heard for miles around. Sometimes she’d start the squall then and there, other times she’d get a sob going that sounded like a motor idling and then she’d hit it full throttle when she saw Mom.
“What happened, darling?” Mom would often ask as she played right into Misti’s hands.
“L-l-l-lori is mad at mmmmmmeeeee!”
There was no jury to hear my case, no lawyer to defend me, just a “victim” who was working the system before a judge who was clearly on her side. The matter was tried without so much as a word from the defense and I, more often than not, was sentenced to a punishment that far exceeded the crime. And she had stinking started it!
“I’ll never do this to my kids!” I’d often say as I stomped away. “I’ll never let my kids torture their older siblings and then punish the older siblings for reacting.” From my lips to God’s ears.
My little Charlie, for all intents and purposes, isn’t little any more. He’s 15 years old, wears a size 12 shoe and, sadly enough, stands several inches taller than his mother. Nevertheless, the “baby” is still the baby.
Therefore, I’ve doled out punishment when the older boys pick on Charlie despite the promise that I made to myself many years ago. I mean, seriously, how could a young man with such a precious face do the things they accuse him of?
“But he’s just so annoying!” they often argue in their defense as Charlie hides behind my back, to which I respond, “But you’re bigger! Leave him alone.”
It’s the way business has been conducted around here for many years.
Then last Saturday, I got a surprising insight into the world in which my older boys have lived.
When I first walked into the room, I was pleased that Lawrence and Charlie were watching a football game together. Charlie was stretched out on the couch, with his head propped up on a pillow, and Lawrence was sitting at the other end of the sofa, next to Charlie’s bare feet. I was touched that they could share these fall days together with a sense of brotherly love.
As I stood there and took in the moment with a mother’s adoration, Charlie’s left foot slowly appeared in the air and then settled, like a butterfly, on his big brother’s shoulder.
It rested there, just for a moment, and then Charlie slowly began to stroke his brother’s face, ever so gently, with his big toe.
Lawrence turned to face Charlie and his oversized appendage. He stared at him for a moment or two with a slow burn then jumped quickly out of his seat in retaliation.
“Mom!” Charlie called out in an all-too familiar whine that was reminiscent of my baby sister’s. “Mom! Lawrence is coming after me!”
Rather than getting involved, I simply turned on my heel and walked away.
Although I didn’t stick around to watch it, I’m quite certain that the punishment fit the crime.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].