A Girl...

He's Not Heavy, He's My Brother

Contrary to an average person's logic, the best gift my parents ever gave me was not the twin Cabbage Patch dolls, Adlai and Stevenson, who could grip crayons in their chubby wired-cloth fingers and were presented to me in a red two-seater stroller with pinstripes and a retractable canopy. The best present was actually my little brother, named, I proudly announced to complete strangers at the grocery store, in fine dining establishments, and in public restrooms, after the little circus mouse in Dumbo. After being an only child for what must have been two and a half excruciatingly long years for anyone who had to listen to Little Lisa, The Screaming "Me, Me, Me" day in and day out, I finally had some company, some cameraderie, a confidante, a partner in crime.

Okay, so maybe I wasn't the best partner a criminal toddler could have, being that time and time again I duped the poor kid into raiding the cereal cabinet, harvesting the snow peas out of the garden against the rules, and sneaking upstairs to see what Santa had brought me, only to blame him for any and all wrongdoing if/when we got caught. That's what little brothers are for, right? Well, yes, of course that's what they're for. But that doesn't mean I needed to abuse the privelege as often and as undiscriminately as I did.

Thinking back on our childhood, especially knowing my brother as I know him today, I find it baffling that I got away with treating him like I did. The reason it doesn't make sense is that he's absolutely brilliant. Really. Here's a little slice of genius he posted on his blog today. Um, yeah. There's no way this kid didn't know what I was up to when I tricked him into whitewashing that fence...

All I can figure is that he let me get away with everything I did. Why? Because I think he liked me. I also think he knew my parents could see through my little charade (pronounced char-ODD) and knew he couldn't possibly have masterminded such evil deeds alone. And also I think he, like Dylan, has some sort of superhuman ability to put up with me at my worst moments, which are those times when I think I can get away with acting like a complete brat. I hereby bestow secular sainthood on them both. (And yes, that involves the donning of origami pope hats.)

So here's wishing my baby bro a happy happy 22nd. Thanks for always letting me be who I am and for always being who you are, even when we sometimes end up being two people no one in their right mind would want anything to do with. Thanks for letting me dress you up (a fate that shall now forever be reserved solely for defenseless cats), for letting me sing lullabies through the slats of your crib at three in the morning, and for making me--selfish, self-centered me--glad I had such a talented co-star in the musical comedy that was my childhood. It's your birthday; go have a popover, froggie!

Here's to you, bub, looking super slick and precociously surly in your Cool Commander sweatshirt and the aviator sunglasses that, soon after this photo was taken, slipped off your head and fell into one of Yellowstone's natural wonders.