Thanks to Facebook’s memories feature, I’m reminded of how crappy big brothers can be to little brothers. The specific memory I was reminded of happened three years ago when Sebastian was only 5 years old.
Only knowing that my husband’s work has something to do with rockets and requires him to travel a lot, he asked his brothers about a rocket that we had just watched launch from Vandenberg Air Force Base. Ron was on a business trip at the time, and so Sebastian asked, “Was dad on that rocket?”
My older boys quickly seized an opportunity to be total buttheads and said, “Yes. And he won’t be back for three years.” Sebastian’s eyes began to well up with tears and I quickly hugged him and shot a “you’re going to get it” look at the older two.
I posted it on Facebook at the time mostly so my husband would see it and know he was missed.
When it came up on my timeline again recently, it made me wonder what the heck is wrong with my boys that they would do those things to each other because that wasn’t the first time they had “joked” with one another.
They often mislead each other in mean ways. Like when my oldest boys convinced my youngest that there was a monster in the woods behind our house. They were so adamant about that being a truth that my middle child had even convinced—and scared—himself.
Although I don’t think that’s nearly as bad as the time my husband built a bonfire in our backyard for the boys and their friends and told them the story of One-Eyed Jack. After the story as the boys sat by the fire alone discussing their own scary tales, Ron jumped out of the darkness scaring most of them enough that they ultimately declared the bonfire over and angrily went inside.
Honestly, I don’t understand how it’s a joke when not everyone is enjoying it. But, hey, that’s me.
Then I realized, no that’s not me. Me used to be them.
I grew up the oldest of six kids. My sister Dee Dee and I were much older than the four youngest so we often were designated babysitters. Or as we called it, slave labor. Spending hours in charge of younger siblings, that pulled you away from telephone time because they needed you to make a grilled cheese sandwich was a drag. When the little cheese eaters would clutch their sandwiches and say, “Mom said you have to do what I say,” as I burned my fingers on the griddle, it made it that much easier to be crappy to my siblings.
Not that it was payback. Looking back it was more than anything out of boredom and just plain curiosity. Case in point, the Red Hots-stuffed Twinkie incident.
Picture this little piece of mean teenage sisterhood: Dee Dee and I were babysitting the youngins. My brother was just a preschooler who wanted a bite of a Twinkie. (Growing up in a large household everyone has a stash of their own desserts hidden from the eager hands—and mouths—of everyone else.) And yes, as you can probably guess we gave him a bite all right, but not before stuffing it with Red Hots. It was just two or three though—we weren’t complete meanies.
After just a few chews, the Red Hots kicked in and my little brother spit the Twinkie out on the floor, to our amusement. I know that karma isn’t instant, and technically doesn’t even happen in your lifetime, but I’m still pretty convinced that participating in this incident is the reason why I end up at the center of so many embarrassing situations now—it’s some sort of cosmic payback.
Had I known that, maybe I wouldn’t have participated in the pickle incident. Pickles were a favorite snack in our house growing up. Once while Dee Dee and I were watching our four younger siblings snacking on pickles and watching TV, my youngest brother committed the mistake of being innocent and trusting while in the company of teenagers. We offered him a slice of pickle that in actuality was a slice of jalapeño. He quickly figured out the difference and spit the jalapeño out of his mouth. We laughed, apologized and then quickly offered him another … jalapeño.
With no reason to think his older sisters entrusted to care for him would be evil tricksters, he ate the “pickle” again, only to quickly realize his mistake. We laughed and promised him the next bite was actually a pickle. At that point he didn’t buy it, refused our offer, and went into the living room to watch cartoons. That incident I’m convinced is why I struggle with heartburn to this day. Because yeah, that’s how it works—you feed your little brother a jalapeño, and then you suffer from an adulthood filled with the burning pain of acid reflux.
I admit I was a terrible big sister, but the worst things I did I can count on one hand. There were also several times—they will never know—when someone else didn’t stomp on them simply because I issued the threat that no one could mess with my siblings, “or else.” And certainly now as an adult, I would go to extremes to protect my siblings.
So I was a crappy big sister, turned—hopefully—into a caring, protective, good big sister. And when my boys pick on each other now, I give them just enough space to figure it out themselves, while keeping a close eye. Though I don’t like them picking on each other, I’m not too worried. After all, they have one disadvantage—I know that pickle slices are really jalapeños.
Shelly Cone still has a weakness for Twinkies. If you send her Twinkies stuffed with Red Hots she’ll probably eat them. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Sep 1-8, 2016.