The years teach much which the days never know. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

            For one year, seven months, eight days, sixteen hours, and twenty-eight glorious minutes, I was an only child. Then he came along. I remember it well. The excitement and trepidation of a new baby’s arrival is indelibly etched in the brain of every nineteen month old child. Okay, maybe not, but I’m sure that I was an excellent big sister at that age. I must have been caring and considerate; it’s in my nature. I’m sure that any time he had the misfortune to become upset and cry, I assured him that everything would be fine, there was nothing to worry about, and to just ignore Mommy, because she’s mean. I catered to his every whim, brought him his toys when he couldn’t get to them, and, as he became older, always made sure that he had enough bologna. When he was nearly a year-and-a-half old and could rise to a standing position without support in the middle of the floor, but was too afraid to take a step, I must have put on my miniature San Diego Chargers cheerleading outfit, made pom-poms out of gift wrapping ribbon, and cheered him on until he realized that there was no need to fear because I would never let him fall. Give me a T! Give me a Y! Give me an L! Give me an E! Give me an R! Goooooooooooooo TYLER!!! I know that I did these things because he was my baby brother and I loved him. My mom has the creepy brother-sister-mouth-kiss pictures

to prove it.

            By the time I was old enough to remember seeing those pictures, they had the mystical power to tickle my uvula and trigger my up-chuck reflex. Somewhere between toddler-hood and the beginning of my haziest memories he must have done something horrible to ruin our loving relationship. I’m certain that I wouldn’t have filled that Mountain Dew bottle with fingernail polish remover and offered it to him if he hadn’t committed some heinous crime first. But, of course, everyone focuses on the trip to the hospital for the stomach pumping, and forgets whatever it was that he must have done to me. I’ll admit the Mountain Dew incident did nothing to help improve sibling relations, but, come on—seriously—I was only five years old, and I didn’t know ingesting fingernail polish remover was hazardous; I just thought it would taste bad. I mean, it was the same color as the sparkling beverage, so how much could it hurt? Besides, if he hadn’t been so greedy, it wouldn’t have been a problem. Who’s going to drink a who-knows-how-old beverage that had been sitting on a dresser? It could have had a dead bug in it. He should have used common sense, but instead he used this minor incident to hold a grudge for years.