The joys of having (much) younger siblings
I'll admit, when my parents brought the first bundle of joy home, I wasn't impressed. I referred to my brother Lachlan only as ‘it’ and Satan’s frogspawn for a year before I acknowledged him. I know, it wasn't original or particularly classy but I was twelve. Although arguably, I treated the next intruder with even greater hostility.
It goes something like this. In order to ease the blow of a second unwelcome surprise, my parents allowed me to pick frogspawn 2.0’s middle name. The first and last had been agreed on – William Fleming. I had nothing left to do but chose an appropriate segway for the two to meet. I eventually settled on Thomas, for nothing but the satisfaction of knowing his initials spelt W.T.F. (another example of classy teen humour). He’s five now, and I'm still waiting for someone to realise the terrible terrible Alex did.
I’m coming across horribly. I should have prefaced this whole thing by saying that I’m their biggest fan these days and vice versa. Not to toot my own horn but I’m almost always called upon for ‘tuck in’ duty over my parents. I’ve definitely joined the ranks with other over-protective big sisters.
Sure, I may be constantly taken for a teen mum but I’ve even learnt to have fun with that – the trick is to give yourself an elaborate X-Factor backstory. For a while I went with ex-Mormon community patriot. Now, I know that seems a little unnecessary but trust me, the people who made assumptions and were rude enough to comment had it coming. Once, a woman approached me while I was pushing my brother on the swing and simply said, "You should be ashamed of yourself," before walking away, leaving me stunned.
Despite these little mix ups, I still wouldn't trade them for the best trained Labrador's in the world (and trust me in the early days I threw that out a lot). In fact, mostly the pros of the situation far outweigh the cons:
Jesus Christ they’re effective birth control promoters. Nothing says ‘C is for Condom’ more than witnessing your mother undergo two pregnancies, complete with swollen feet and haemorrhoids.
I haven’t had to fetch a remote in years. They’re both still at that adorable age where they think every task is a treasure hunt.
It’s given me the freedom to be much messier at home. My parents are so accustomed to my OCD cleanliness that I can peg anything on them.
There’s always someone with whom I can share my pearls of wisdom, no matter how poor the advice – and they also substitute as unpaid therapists for all the ranting I'm too ashamed to force on my friends.
Finally, I always have a cover for watching Rugrats or Wildthornberry reruns.
So rest easy, if you're ever in the position of ruining your only child’s fortress of solitude – it usually get better. But just in case, never let the kid name your baby.
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