2 years, 8 months and 10 days after I was born, my parents finally got what their hearts had been yearning for, for years. A son. When I was a kid, when I found out that they called me "Junior" in the womb thinking I'd be a boy (and maybe for my sister before me too), I pictured my parents' faces when I was born. Their expressions read, "Oh shoot, another one." But, I didn't get parents like those. They had me and realized that they were going to keep trying for another baby, to give their 5 girls a brother next time. And they succeeded. Best gift ever.
My brother and I used to fight all the time. Like, actual kicking, punching, hair pulling, you name it. Often we'd get into these fights and forget what they were about in the first place, as is often the case with fighting siblings as children. These days I wonder if I was the instigator in most, if not all of these fights. I wouldn't be surprised. I think as a kid, I always had a little bit of angst reserved for my brother because I felt like he was what my parents had been waiting for, and I just got in the way. What a silly thing to believe.
As we got older though, you'd think the fighting would stop. But it didn't. It just got more mature. It became less and less physical, especially after he outgrew me, and then became more vocal and then sometimes became silent. But after every single fight, there was always a sincere apology and our camaraderie recommenced.
All this fighting made fighting become second nature to us, which sounds odd. Then, while watching an episode of Cybil, we realized that we were each other's (to use the phrase they coined) "Crap-free zone". We didn't have to cover up our feelings to sugarcoat each other, we didn't have to tiptoe around each other -- we didn't have to deal with all that, well, crap. We realized that it was because we knew when not to take crap from the other person, while at the same time, knowing that we could be completely honest with the other even if it meant hurting the other's feelings. And that was okay. And we always knew that in the end, our fighting wasn't for nothing. If it was petty, it meant that there was a deeper underlying problem that we had to fix. If it was serious, we needed to talk it out. In the end, talking it out has always worked out better for us, and we haven't fought in a long time.
I don't want to make it sound like all we did all these years was fight. We got along quite well. I knew he loved me when he played Barbies with me with his little GI Joes and when he found the height difference too big, he'd ask for a Barbie. He'd use his books to make rooms in what would be a little Barbie house, something I don't think I ever would have thought of because I was too busy changing and rechanging their clothes. We shared a room growing up and often, it was a mess. We'd make little paths in our pool of clothes and thought that was the coolest thing ever. When it came time to clean our room, we'd often clean the room together, and to entertain ourselves, sing along with songs playing on the radio. Back then, there wasn't much swearing on the airwaves. Those were good days (except when The Aussie decided to swiftly open the door to join us in song, only to smack my head with the door as I was sitting behind it - Shanice's "I Love Your Smile" hasn't sounded as happy since - LOL). At night, when we'd go to bed, I'd read him a story from his book of 365 stories and sometimes tuck him in or he'd tuck me in, or we'd tuck each other in, which defeated the purpose of the first person being tucked in. After lights out, we'd say our prayers followed with the inquiry, "Are you done praying?" and then chat a bit. But once the chatting was taken over by fatigue, it was always time to close off the night with exchanges of, "Good night, sweet dreams, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite!" (something we also shared with our sisters); "I love you." "I love you too."; and topped with "I love you millions, trillions, thousands....more." Then it was beddybye.
My brother has been one of my best friends for a long time. He and I have been through a lot, lifted each other out of many holes many times, and always stuck together when times were tough. We help each other without blinking and we talk to each other like the other person actually cares or understands what the other is saying. (I know more about arnis than I ever thought I'd want to know. He can probably say the same about baking.)
We've lived together all our lives. He's never lived in a home without me. When I decided to move out of my parents' house on my own, he came with me...and kept me sane. I don't know what I would have done if he didn't come with me. He was there when I found growing up scary or hard, and I thought I was strong enough to do it all on my own. He made my life so much easier.
And now, he's ready to be on his own. I always hoped that when it came time for us to live separately, that he'd be the one to leave me and not the other way around. I have a challenging enough time doing that as it is when we're on the subway together (I've almost cried a few times). When I got married, Mr.S asked that he stay with us because he knew what it meant to me and also, what it meant to and for him.
But I'm not sure I'm ready for him to be on his own. He's always been downstairs or in the next room. And now, he's across the city. It feels so far. I feel a little bit sad when I go to bed after not saying good night to him or telling him I love him, but I know he knows that and hears it when I say it in my heart.
I worry about him like I imagine our mother would. Did he get home okay? Is he having fun settling in? Are his neighbours nice? I have to remind myself that he's a big boy - a man, in fact, and he is more than capable of taking care of himself. And I remember when I moved out on my own, I wished the same, if not better adventure on those I loved, and who better to wish it on than My Brother?
Note: My mixer's new home is at my brother's place so that whenever I want to bake, I have to come over. He doesn't mind one bit.
