When my brother was born, I stopped eating oatmeal. I don’t know why, but that’s what my mother said. My guess now would be a cry for attention. As an only child for three years, I was not exactly thrilled to have a younger brother. If anything, I wanted a sister. That became apparent when Joe came home from the hospital and I poked him in the eye. As we grew older, I became the typical older sister, and he, the little brother. A constant mama’s boy, he always tattled on me, got me into trouble and 90 percent of the time, I probably deserved it. I could never escape him, and now, with my wedding 11 days away, I don’t want to leave him.
Joe is my live-in companion and forever playmate, but he was pretty much useless to me during Barbies and dress up. He could never sit still when we played school and was not a very good patient when I was trying to save lives as a doctor. It was bad enough that our family birthday parties were lumped together (he on Sept. 5 and me on the 12th), but looking back now, having a brother is, in my opinion, the best practice for a girl before she gets married. It establishes a set of guidelines and “rules” that lay the groundwork for what to expect when marrying Mr. Right.
Joe was always and still is, a slob. My dad calls him Oscar Madison to my Felix Ungar. Rule number one: no man is organized. Joe is also a diehard Yankees and Jets fan, as is my entire family. Rule number two: whoever I marry must be into sports and love the Yankees and Jets to coexist with my family. Unfortunately, my fiancé Bryan, fails twice in that category, being a Mets and Giants fan, but he’ll gladly sit through any game and talk sports with my dad and brother.
Joe’s diet consists of sandwiches, chicken and Gatorade. Rule number three: guys eat a lot, so learning to cook is paramount. Rule number four: guys eat a lot, so they should also learn how to cook for themselves. I am the furthest thing from an obedient 1950s housewife, but actually enjoyed making my brother breakfast, including an amazing egg sandwich, so I know I’ll enjoy doing it for Bryan, too.
Having a brother means anything pink, princess and girly is an instant eye roller. But he’ll come back to you when he gets a girlfriend. He’ll become a lovesick fool like every boy, will do anything to impress a girl and may lose his sense of self if he’s not with the right one. You’ll try to tell him that, but you’ll come off as annoying, nosey and mean. And even though he’ll be upset with you for what in your eyes, means trying to help, he’ll still stick up for you when your boyfriend is in the wrong and upsets you. In the same breath, he will also take your boyfriend’s side when you are in the wrong and will tell you to cut him some slack, because after all, he is a boy. Rule number five: good or bad, always, always talk to each other.
My protectiveness has come out quite a bit in recent years. I’m annoying, nagging and redundant, harping on everything because I don’t know when to quit. I take the cake for stubbornness, that’s my downfall. “You’re not my mother,” Joe says more than occasionally. “No, but I worry about you and know what’s best for you,” I respond. Rule number six: siblings are supposed to fight, and it’s ok to fight with your spouse sometimes, it means you care. I also wasn’t blessed with the virtue of patience. I don’t like to wait for people to make mistakes and find out things for themselves, so I try to intervene and stop it. That’s when Joe storms off in a stair-pounding fit of sensitivity. Rule number seven: sensitivity in boys is unattractive, but in men it is kind of endearing…sometimes.
Joe always pushed my buttons and made me angry. I can’t escape it, as Bryan enjoys doing it, too. I would always race Joe to see who could eat ice cream the fastest. He was too young and naïve to understand, but I always “lost.” Naturally, I always get upset when Bryan never leaves room for dessert. Karma.
Joe’s room is a box. Mine isn’t much bigger, but I have the air conditioner. When we were little on hot summer nights, we would bunk together, pull out my trundle bed and have sleepovers. We repeated those nights on Christmas Eve and Easter, counting presents and getting ready for an egg hunt battle. I usually emerge the victor, but he has also reigned champion for a few years.
Now at 27 and 24, my brother and I still get yelled at by my parents for teasing each other, and we probably always will. We still wrestle (I don’t stand a chance anymore), we watch television together (I wouldn’t love Scrubs and The Office as much if it wasn’t for him), we go on Dunkin’ Donuts coffee runs for each other and we still keep our own little traditions. Let’s just say Christmas morning next year won’t be the same.
Now, I have to live with a different boy. Well, I’m thankful that I am a little more prepared for that. I can’t imagine not being able to go next door to Joe’s room to return a mismatched sock or see if he wants to watch a movie. After 24 years, I can’t imagine not seeing him every day. And although I may not show it, I can’t thank him enough for everything he has done to be the best little brother a sister could ask for.
