Protecting baby bro from the scary parts
I watch my boys and their reactions and interactions regularly. Even at two and three, the bonds of brotherhood and friendship are apparent. D, who is full of life and energy, fights as hard as he can to keep up with his big brother, wanting to be a part of everything – to be included in everything. K, who is wise beyond his years at three and a half, laughs at his brother’s antics. “Silly baby!” He says, in that tone that is meant to prove the he is just too mature for some of these ridiculous games that D so enjoys.
I think back to my own childhood, the distance between adulthood and those carefree days apparent. I, too, am the older sibling. My brother and I are four years apart, yet at times and in ways, we were just as close as my own boys, only separated by 14 short months. There was occasional jealousy and rivalry, at least on my end. I saw my brother as the favorite. I was the forgotten one.
I’m sure the majority of that was my own childishness. I was always a bit of a drama queen. I know – hard to imagine. My earliest memories of my brother were of him being sick and mom turning her attention to him. Nights of her sitting up with him as he coughed a croupy cough and struggled to breathe, much less sleep. Late night trips to the emergency room, where I sleepily sat in my father’s lap as my mother and the doctors fussed over him. Even my mother admitted that there were times that she took my brother to the doctor, thinking he was sick, only to find that I was worse off than he. I, in my own 5 year old way, understood that he needed her more and didn’t complain. Maybe my body could handle more, or maybe it was all in my head that I could deal with pain and illness well.
Life went on, he got better, grew older, and the normal sibling rivalries started. But even through our fighting and arguing, we always looked out for each other. It was just what we did. I could be just as mean to him as I wanted, but if anyone else said something negative about him or did anything mean, they had better be ready because big sister was coming to his defense. I even went so far as to punch a friend in about 3rd or 4th grade, because she did something mean to my brother when she was playing at our house. She never told on me, out of fear that she would get in trouble for spraying my brother in the eyes with hairspray for annoying her.
A few years back, I made a confession to our parents about a time I decided to protect my brother from them. I’m shocked they never discovered this, because my methods of cover-up were questionable, if not just plain stupid. But it worked, they never knew. Until I told them.
We were always considered to be responsible children, given privileges that many of our friends weren’t allowed until they were much older. Among the things that my parents decided that my brother was mature enough to have was a BB gun. Nothing fancy, it was a single pump job that couldn’t do much damage, unless you shot it straight into your eye. He was quite responsible with it, careful not to let his less mature friends take a turn to play. Until that fateful day…
I was the “adult in charge” at the ripe age of about 12 or 13. My brother was in the living room, watching cartoons and I was in the kitchen — probably overdramatically doing the dishes, pretending to be Cinderella. I heard a noise from the living room and my brother gasp. I walk in to see him staring at the ceiling, with tears in his eyes. I look up and see the bright, shining gleam of a metal BB, staring back at me from the white popcorn ceiling. My brother begins to sob. “Dad is going to KILL me!” For a split second, I chuckled inside – at least it wasn’t me! The fear and sadness on his face kicked the momentary glee from my mind, though. He was just a little kid who had done something silly. My parents were never mean or even remotely abusive, but my dad could be a little scary when he was mad – especially to an 8 or 9 year old.
I began to think. What can I do so he won’t get in trouble? And heck, I was the one in charge, there was a damn good chance that I’d have some kind of punishment for letting this happen. Why did it have to be the ceiling? I was like 5 feet tall. Even on a chair, I couldn’t reach the ceiling well. And if I tried to pick it out, would I leave a bigger hole? And then it hit me…
I could cover it up. No one would know. I dug through the cabinets in search of the perfect ceiling patch but nothing was jumping out at me. What in the world could I use? Somehow in my search, I ended up in the pantry/spice cabinet. What I thought I would find there, I have no idea. But in that cabinet, I suddenly had an epiphany. I found the magic jar that would be the answer to our problems. Marshmallow fluff.
I grabbed a knife and expertly puttied over the BB, even crafting a tiny peak in the top, to help it blend into the popcorn ceiling. I cleaned up the evidence and he put his BB gun away for outdoor use later. Mom and dad came home and I held my breath for the rest of the evening, sure that they would see. But they didn’t. Days, weeks, and months passed and the incident was never noticed and was all but forgotten.
One day, about 5 or 6 years later, I was lying on the floor with my youngest and looked up at the ceiling. There was a small, yellow spot, right where that BB went in. The Fluff had begun to discolor. I giggled a little over that day, but still kept it to myself. A couple years after that, my father remodeled the living room and sprayed over the ceiling, covering up the evidence forever.
At Thanksgiving dinner, about 15 years after the incident, I finally fessed up and told my parents about the BB, the Fluff, and the yellowed spot. They have never had the slightest clue and found it hysterical and heartwarming that I had been so resourceful in finding a way to protect my brother. I figured by then it was safe to confess – what were they going to do to their married, pregnant, 27 yr old daughter over a BB in the ceiling 15 years before. And my brother could hold his own by that point.
Even through our rivalries, jealousies, and out and out disagreements, my brother has always been one of my best friends. I may not always like what he does or the choices that he makes, but I will always be standing ready with a jar of Marshmallow Fluff, whenever he needs me. I can only hope and pray that my own little boys will have the same kind of bond as they grow up.
