Mommy, Tissy Hit & Similar Such Sentences

When my brother was a toddler, he came around the corner one day and declared, "Mommy, tissy (sissy) hit." It was his first complete sentence and an incredible foreshadowing of how our relationship would go until he surpassed me in height, muscle mass and speed. Apparently, I was stunned.

This morning my youngest, rather nonverbal, son slid down the stairs, his tiny bum bouncing on each step. When he reached the bottom he sat there, looked at me, and tattled. "Mama. Hit." Then he smacked himself. I narrowed my eyes, trying to figure out what, exactly, he was reporting. When I didn't immediately respond he increased his volume. "Mama! Hit!" He smacked himself again.

"Who hit?" I asked.

"Dare-dit!" Which, in the event that you can't decipher toddler, is his word for Garrett. But I feel like most of you probably figured that one out for yourselves. Now, in the event that any of you think that my oldest is following in his mother's sibling abuse, allow me to assure you that the reason Matthew knew that you are supposed to tell on a hitter is because he hits his big brother at least three times a day. The Rock Star has only recently begun to retaliate.

Matthew was not wounded--physically or emotionally--in any way. He simply discovered a new word and decided he'd use it to tell on his brother. He was really rather proud of himself.

"Garrett?" I called.

"Yes, mommy?"

"Did you hit your brother?"

"Um. No." He replied.

"I'm going to ask again. Did you hit your brother?"

"...no?"

"Then why did he come down here and say that you did?"

Boy did that kid look like the cat who ate the canary. Garrett has always been incredibly honest. Matthew has never been able to talk. So apparently we're entering new realms of parenthood wherever we look.

"Um. Yeah. I hit him." The Rock Star stammered. Because there was really nothing left to do but tell the truth.

Pesky Brothers

Have I told you about my brother? He was born pesky and I'm sure that, one day, he'll die pesky. That's just the way it is with brothers. The boys are being taught a lot of lessons on sharing right now. This is because The Little Buddy takes his brother's toys. All. The. Time. We explain that, unless Garrett was actively playing with something, he needs to share it with his brother and stop that incessant wailing and yanking of said toy out of his brother's hands. Obviously, if Garrett was playing with whatever it is then Matthew has to give it back. The other night my boys were about to get in the tub. The Little Buddy climbed in first and took possession of a toy. The Star climbed in a minute later and took the toy. I watched it happen and demanded that he hand the object back to his little brother. "But mom," he bemoaned, "we share in this family!"

When it is convenient for him, apparently we share in this family.

I yelled down to The Husband, who was washing dishes, "I feel the need to call my brother and apologize."

A few minutes later Garrett was lying flat in the tub, belly down. Matthew climbed on top of his legs, also lying belly down, cackled, and bit Garrett in the butt. It wasn't vindictive. He wasn't mad. It was nothing more than a nibble, really.*

Which is pretty much how I remember it. I applied the rules to my little brother and, minutes if not hours later, he smiled and placed some form of retaliation upon me. Likely he did it with a smile because, as I said, he was pesky.

Garrett is the controlling brat factor (a.k.a. Me) and Matthew is the pesky little ankle--read:butt--biter (a.k.a. Jon).

Anyway, Pesky Jon left a comment a few days back asking to see pictures of The Rock Star with all of his "Hi. I'm a Boy and Therefore I Must Be Wounded At All Times" glory.

The first busted lip. He achieved this by losing his footing on our concrete steps.

I don't have a picture of the second busted lip which was accompanied by a bloody nose when he somehow redirected as he jumped--from a sitting position--off the counter and his face ricocheted off the floor.

The black eye and bruised cheek he got from somehow running into a chair at church. I wasn't there to witness this one so...the logistics are beyond me.

*Garrett actually laughed. Which was good if not slightly disturbing.

Peppercorn Steak vs. Hot Dog

This was my brother's facebook status from last night: Got home to my wife making me peppercorn steak with sweet onion marmalade, homemade mashed potatoes, and asparagus. Yep, I had a great end to my day.

This was my response: You guys are like a weird marital cooking show. You run on some bizarre cable channel and I find myself oddly addicted. The food sounds good but it just seems so complicated compared to the hot dogs, french fries, and pineapple that we ate for dinner.

It's not that I can't cook. I can. That is to say, I can follow a recipe as well as the next girl. I don't make Beouf Bourguignon on a regular basis ever, but I don't burn water--at least, not usually. I can make homemade mashed potatoes. I can make asparagus. And I often do. I can make peppercorn steak. I very likely would never put sweet onion marmalade on it on account of the fact that I think Satan exists primarily by his crop of onions. They are harvested in the pit of hell, I tell ya. Okay, actually, I've started cooking more with onions in the past few years but they have got to be cooked so well that they resemble an overdone noodle.

But really, I just want to bring your attention to the level of marital bliss that those two have going on. Heather cooks with sweet onion marmalade and Jon is so excited about it when he gets home from work that he has to facebook about it. Can I get a collective "ahhhh"? I know, right?
So yeah, we seriously had hot dogs for dinner last night. In my defense, we were watching the Saints game before heading out to church for Bible study, they were Super Special Dogs which means that they had dill pickles, tomatoes and cheese all over them, and we were having an incredibly rare picnic on the floor. It should also be noted that Little Buddy did not have a hot dog.

It isn't that I don't make steak (okay, I rarely do, Garrett can't chew it), potatoes and asparagus, it just struck me as funny, the polar opposite meals we ate last night. Heather knew that the way to her man's heart was peppercorn steak with sweet onion marmalade. I knew that the way to my man's heart was a hot dog. Yes, in this case, my man is three feet tall and can't eat in the family room without a towel under him.

I miss Jon and Heather. I miss getting to see them all newlywed-like. But I'm glad for facebook. Otherwise how would I ever know what my brother ate for dinner last night? Also, I'm glad they are lovey dovey cooking meals and staring at each other over a candlelit table. Um. The candlelit table part was emphasis mine, entirely. I have no idea if it even happened like that. Still, it makes me happy.

You know what might make you all happy? Another dialogue with the hilarious Rock Star. To go along with this peppercorn steak verses hot dog blog. From dinner last night:

G: Mommy. I am going to eat another bite of my watermelon now.
Me: That's pineapple, honey.
G: Um. Yeah. I know.
Me: Okay.
G: I just like to call it watermelon.
Me: (laughing) That might cause some confusion at some point.
G: (stabbing a piece of pineapple) Now I am going to put you in my mouth Mr. Watermelon.
Me: (under my breath) Pineapple.
G: (exasperated) Mommy. I know! It's just for fun.
Me: You're a weird kid.

Surprise

So, when my brother first walked in to his graduation party, everyone yelled, "Surprise!" Garrett and I were tucked away at the end of a table so I couldn't really get his reaction on the camera because homeboy is sitting on the table. But you can kind of hear my brother saying, "For what?" It was pretty hilarious. He graduated in December and Heather and my parents wanted him to be surprised. Needless to say, he was. He started walking through the room and saying hi to everyone. Garrett was sitting on my lap and I continuously instructed him to be very quiet until Uncle Jon saw us. Once my brother spied us, Garrett was glued to his hip. Man, does that kid ever love himself some Uncle Jon.

I love how my brother says, "What the heck?" And then Garrett repeats him. You also can't hear the faint whisper Garrett uttered when my brother first emerged from the crowd. Before my brother spotted us, Garrett saw him and faintly murmured, "A-prise." It melted my heart.

*I don't believe my brother actually has homeboys.

To My Kid Brother

First of all, you have to listen to the way my son says the word cereal. It's hysterical. At least, I think it is.

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My brother is 25 today. I have to admit that, lately, more than any other reason, he is the driving force behind my insane desire to welcome a second child into this family. I look back on my life, which was made so much richer by the fact that Jon was in it, and my heart aches for the same relationship for my own son. I watch all the other toddlers at church either interacting with their new siblings or waiting for them to be birthed and I long for Garrett to experience the joy of a brother or sister who is close in age.

I didn't want my brother.

I wanted the blonde baby in the incubator next to my nine-week premature pipsqueak of a sibling. He'd decided to arrive in the afternoon on Christmas Eve. I was two years, three months, and 16 days old. He was puny and, after weeks in the NICU, warranted showers and loads and oodles of attention. And I did not like that.

He grew into an obnoxious instigator of a little boy. So I hit him. In middle school and high school I generally tried my best to ignore him. Once I pulled a butcher knife on him. And, okay, so I just held it out and told him to get away from me and there was never ever a fraction of a moment where I considered using it on him but what with the way my dad reacted you'd have thought I'd actually killed my brother, right there in the kitchen.

Now that I'm a mother, I (mostly) understand. But, for the record dad...he started it!

Even when he was small and new and even when we had nothing in common and even when I was hitting him, he was mine. He's the only other person in the world who knows what it is like to be raised in our house. He's the only child who shared every vacation, every Christmas, every birthday, every day in and day out with me.

How he is 25 and engaged and walking around with two Master's degrees I'll never know. Because when I look at him I generally see my snaggle toothed kid brother. I see all the times I loved him and all the times I wanted to punch him in the face and all the memories we share because we had each other. And I long for that for my own child.

Happy Birthday, Jon. I just have one thing to say, "You're still not older than me."

Edited to add: My mom posted pictures on her website. You can see exactly what I mean by pipsqueak here.

Ode To My Brother

There was a time I desperately wanted a sister. Not in place of my brother, I just saw pairs of sisters around me and I coveted their bond. Now it is so intensely clear to me--the bigger picture--God knows exactly what He's doing, even when he picks out our siblings. Oh sure, there were times I wanted to throw him out the metaphorical, and sometimes literal, window, times I slugged him with all the might of an older sibling profoundly annoyed, times I wanted powers to wish him away. The kid was a pest. But put us on a vacation together and we were immediate best friends. Pick on one of us and the other became instant defender. Thicker than water, the blood ran in our veins.

He still irritates the life outta me. Yah. The boy is good at everything he does and smarter than his own good. It would be a tough act to follow, so everyday I praise God that I was the firstborn.

I've never lived more than an hour away from my brother, unless you count the 27 months I lived as an only child. Twelve is going to be pushing the limits of what I can bear. We don't see each other that often, he lives his life and I live mine. But when those lives collide in birthday parties or holidays or weekends when he comes to visit, my life is richer. Yes, there was time, in late elementary school, when I longed for a sister, but with that brief, childhood fantasy aside, my brother has always been enough.

Enough to play GI Joes and Ninja Turtles and Ghostbusters on the floor of his room with. Enough not to play Barbies with (he didn't play them right. He gave them funny voices and his life scenarios were not nearly as sophisticated as mine. His never dealt with drug addiction, affairs, and teen pregnancy). Enough for me to be the subject of his first full sentence, "Mommy, sissy hit." Enough to rub his soft brown hair between my fingers when his head only reached my shoulder. Enough to drop Bunny down the hole in the cabin at Tahoe over and over and over. Enough to laugh uproariously in his face when he used to tell me that one day he would be older than me. Enough to run away from him and lock myself in the bathroom when he was finally taller than me and I accidentally punched him in the face. Enough for him to laugh hysterically when, as my mom had long since promised, he realized the tables had finally turned. Enough for obstacle courses, bedroom tents made out of blankets, and joke books. Enough to know that it would be best to put a towel over the oar that stuck out between us in the car so that we wouldn't kill each other on the way to Tahoe. Enough to use for my sadistic tormenting of "Crimson Clown." Enough to probably have been one of my best friends then...even if in secret. Enough to be one of them now in the wide open.

I'm proud of this kid who will always be a kid to me. He'll always have glasses and braces and be that awkward, slightly dorky fourth grader. It doesn't matter that he grew up to have all the looks in the family. Or maybe he'll always be stuck somewhere between four and five. Somewhere when we walked the street of our new town looking for kids our ages. Maybe he'll always be twelve and sweaty on a basketball court and I'll be screaming at a referee about his asinine call that made my brother's team lose. Maybe he'll be graduating from high school and I'll wonder where all the time went. Or maybe, he'll always be the teenager who told me I looked beautiful on my wedding day or the uncle who held his nephew for the first time. Maybe he'll be all of these boys, existing in realms of my memory reserved especially for my favorite people.

I know I will miss him. I know that I desperately want another child because I long for my children to experience the camaraderie that inevitably came from being close in age. I know that the day I move I will be counting the moments until I get to see him again. Do me a favor, don't tell him about this post. If I know my brother at all, it'll go to his head. And he is so intelligent, so talented, so beautiful inside and out, that he doesn't need anymore ego boosts.

I am thankful that I don't have a sister. Rejoicing in the fact that God saw the whole picture when, on December 24, 1983, my little gorilla of a brother came into the world to share a family with me.