Blogs Are Stupid

Doesn't anyone believe in Dear Diary anymore? What happened to the joy of putting actual pen to paper? And why does every ordinary Jane and John think they can write well enough to burden the world with their scribblings? It’s a mystery that badly needs solving. My first entry contains my thoughts about blogging and will set your expectations. The rest will probably be stream of consciousness garbage, much like you’ll find on any other blog. Perhaps we will both come away enlightened.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Adventures in Sisterhood; Part One

I have two sisters. My youngest sister is 6 years younger than me, and sadly, due to our age difference, we are not as close as I would like. As a child, she was widely regarded as a “handful” by friends, family and caregivers. I think today she would be labeled “Spirited”. My Diminutive One reminds me very much of the way my sister was as a child. Full of beans, smart as all get out, but completely unaware of just how special they are.

This past weekend I was speaking to my other sister about her, and afterwards I was thinking about how we interacted as children. We weren’t mean to her (most of the time). But as older sibling tend to do, we manipulated her to suit our whims and do our bidding, used her as a plaything and a scapegoat, and ignored her when we had more important things to do than amuse ourselves by tormenting her.

There is one story that has become a fond and often told tale in our family folklore. It recounts how my father, when left in charge of us one Saturday morning while my mother went to work, suddenly found himself short one daughter.

My Dad was a blue collar worker all of his life. He worked long hard hours for a barely adequate paycheck. Understandably, when Saturdays rolled around, he wasn’t inclined to do much of anything except indulge in an intimate relationship with the couch and the television. Sometimes, we would join him on the couch, happily soaking up such brain blighting fare as Star Trek, Planet of the Apes, Starsky and Hutch, Mannix, and Kung Fu Theatre.

But sometimes, we left my Dad to his soporific entertainment, and went in search of more stimulating activity. We usually found it, because back then, kids knew how to play. We would spend hours constructing villages out of our Playskool sets, or setting up a house for our Barbies with that lovely blow-up furniture that was supposed to make us feel better about not having the Dreamhouse or the Corvette. Or, we’d make up our own plays and create elaborate costumes and sets to act them out. We had an enormous sandbox and we often spent entire afternoons in there with our many gerbils, digging tunnels and creating mazes for them. SIGH. Those were idyllic days.

On the rare occasions that we couldn’t seem to find anything to amuse ourselves, we usually resorted to finding new and interesting ways to exploit Baby Sister, who was always eager and accommodating. I remember sandwiching her between two vomit green vinyl beanbags and sending her careening down the urine yellow carpeted stairs. Our childhood home was a two-story turn of the century craftsman style behemoth, and the stairs were steep and treacherous.

A perfect place to play, in other words. Naturally, decided to send Baby Sister on a test run.

We held our breaths as the S.S Beanbag crested the top step and then gasped with horror and amazement as it tipped over and shot down far faster than we had anticipated. Our hearts leapt into our throats when she crashed into the coat closet at the foot of the steps with bone jarring force. We sat looking at one another in stunned silence. Surely we had killed her. Middle Sister’s eyes began to fill with tears and her lower lip began to tremble.

“Is she….?”

The d word, she meant. We were going to 9 year old jail and we both knew it. The thought of gruel and sack dresses and sock darning made my own eyes water.

“No stupid she isn’t dead!” I said, with far more certainty than I felt.

Suddenly Baby sister emerged disheveled and red faced, but definitely, wondrously, obligingly….not dead.

“Adain!” she cried, clapping her chubby hands with glee.

So we got a reprieve from 9 year old jail, but the wisdom that such an opportunity should impart, is often wasted on the young and invincible. We had many more such exploits, and amazingly, we still made it to adulthood relatively unscathed.

This particular day, Baby sister was eventually found standing quietly in the tub with the shower curtain drawn; hands folded over her little belly and looking for all the world like an apple cheeked friar. Further investigation revealed that her beatific stance was due to the fact that her hands were firmly cemented together with Mom’s oatmeal and honey face mask, the remainder of which was smeared on every visible surface in the bathroom. It had dried thoroughly leaving her quite stuck and quite helpless.

My dad ran a bath and put her in, hoping the warm water would eventually penetrate the mask and free her. It took some soaking, but finally her hands were freed from their glutinous prison.

The supposition is that she, being somewhat inclined to borrow trouble, had gotten into the face mask and had a grand old time creating satisfying peaks and whorls with the obligingly glutinous substance. Ostensibly, at some point, she realized she was going to get into Big Trouble, and climbed in the shower to hide, whereupon her hands dried together.

It’s a pretty solid theory given the evidence, but Middle Sister and I know better.


  • At 11:48 AM, Blogger Amy Y said…

    Ahhh siblings. :)
    My mom never left us alone with my dad so I don't have any stories this good. I wish I did though!

  • At 1:00 PM, Blogger Foofa said…

    I loved sliding down steep stairs on bean bags. I have a feeling you guys might have had something to do with the stuck hands though.

  • At 2:02 PM, Blogger said…

    Ah, the poor baby sisters of the world... I remember making my baby sister puke (not on purpose, of course!) when I convinced her to see how many gumballs she could put into her mouth. Answer? A lot, but it will make you throw up. On the carpet. And the stain will be rainbow...

  • At 2:03 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    Why do they keep coming back for more? It is like they think they were made for punishment.

  • At 3:25 PM, Blogger mamatulip said…

    I grew up an only child, so I really love hearing about sibling stories. The relationship between my children fascinates me.

  • At 4:49 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    My little brother, apparently, used scissors and cut up the lower part of my bedspread. He was too young to tell my mom that he never picked up the scissors. AND he was too young to get in trouble for it. I, on the other hand, got a new bedspread out of the deal. (Don't tell).

  • At 8:18 PM, Blogger Rositta said…

    I wished I'd had a sibling, being an only child kind of sucked...

  • At 8:45 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    I was and am the little sister. My brother, who is 5 years older than me used to hate that he had to babysit me when he was Jr. High aged. I remember one time when he made me take out the garbage, and then locked me outside in the snow. I have to say that we still have a little rivalry even though I am 41 and he is 46! Good thing he gave us 2 adorable nieces or who knows how much I would put up with.
    You'll be happy to know that my 8 and 6 yr old boys still make up things to do - forts in the livingroom, throwing army men with parachutes off the balcony, even playing house & school with their 4 yr old sister!
    Amy in WI

  • At 9:13 PM, Blogger Life As I Know It said…

    I am the youngest of 4, and was picked on a lot. Eh, I think I'm a better, stronger person for it. Gotta' love older siblings.

  • At 9:29 PM, Blogger Angela said…

    I am older but always got in trouble for everything my little sister did.

  • At 10:59 PM, Blogger drowning pisces said…

    I have 3 sisters... one 4yrs younger, one 13yrs younger, one 15yrs younger.... wasn't quite as "creative" as you BA :-) ... but I do remember teasing the next youngest. The youngest two were soooo much younger, that I was more in parental mode than torturous older sister mode ;-)

  • At 12:08 AM, Blogger SUEB0B said…

    As a youngest, I remember this all too well.

  • At 12:19 AM, Blogger Girlplustwo said…

    i will always regret not having a sister and not having one for M.

    and sorry to hear of the fever, babe.

  • At 8:57 AM, Blogger Chicky Chicky Baby said…

    My younger sister is four years my junior. She was a trooper, I have to say. She even willingly let me cut her hair to disastrous results and she still loves me to this day.

  • At 9:34 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    Somedays I wonder how we made to adulthood with all the stupid things we did. Funny thing is, nobody thought it was wrong.

    The protect your kids at all costs, insulate them from the fun of childhood attitude of today makes me sad for them. Don't get me wrong I don't want my children to be harmed but I feel they are missing out on a vital piece of growing up.

    We were constantly on the go, riding our bikes miles from home and nobody thought anything of it. Now you're afraid to let them out of your sight for fear that some pedophile lurking in the bushes is just waiting to jump out and grab them.

    Sad, sad sad.

  • At 10:27 PM, Blogger Fairly Odd Mother said…

    LOL! I used to wake my little sister up by cracking her knuckles in the morning. Nice.

  • At 4:44 PM, Blogger Middle Girl said…

    As I suspected, an excellent start. Moving on up the chain.


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