Life as Betsy

Without a doubt, the one person that I have been the meanest to in my life would be my younger brother Andy. Just two years younger than me, I was the tyrannical big sister who took pleasure in holding him back and making him cry when we were little. Why, you ask? I honestly cannot tell you why. I was little and so wanted to be big and grown up and he was often the only person smaller than me. With his cherub demeanor, white blonde hair and unwavering devotion to me, he was an easy target that I often took aim at. It is easy for me to admit that until about the time we both we in middle school, I wasn’t a good big sister.

To make matters much worse, his birthday was only 16 days before mine. It only made sense to me that since I was older, my birthday should come first and for a good number of his younger birthdays (oh 4 through 9) I was pouty and obnoxious. Definitely not in the mood to celebrate him.

My mother always told me to be nice to brother because one day, he’d be bigger and stronger than me and I wouldn’t want him as an enemy. And she was right. He did grow bigger than me and stronger than me, as well as smarter and more responsible. But he also is the kindest, nicest, most thoughtful guy I’ve ever known. He’s never been an enemy, aside from the days he could tattle on me. Despite everything I did to him, every button I knew to push, every liberty I knew I could take with him, he’s still always right by my side.

It’s funny, because in some ways, I feel so close to him and yet he and I maybe talk once or twice a month. I can tell you though, when I was in Seattle visiting him back in February, there was something about being with him that felt more like "home" than even my own apartment can sometimes feel.  I love my husband and my home here and my life, but there is only one person who knows me like Andy does and when it was time for me to come home that Sunday afternoon, it was extremely hard to leave him up there. Nevermind that he’s lived in Seattle for almost two years and Salem for five years before that. It didn’t feel right for him to not be living in Vancouver.

He turned 25 years old today. I always feel older on other people’s birthdays; moreso than on my own birthday. Because I remember when he was two and broke his leg falling down a flight of stairs. I remember when we were seven and five and told each other what we’d gotten each other for Christmas (I got him a dinosaur and he got me a huge book of fairytales). I remember all those first days of school with our signs and all those family road trips with our bright yellow walkmans and the invisible line down the middle of the back seat that we could not cross. I remember him sobbing because he was too little go on certain rides at Disneyland and the morning he went in for his deviated septum correction. I remember the summer he was gone to Ecuador or correcting his essays for his admission to college. I remember how he held me at my grandmother’s burial, when we all dropped a rose in on top of her urn and I suddenly found myself sobbing.

I sometimes think about what I will say about my brother on his wedding day, as I toast him and his bride, whomever she may be, because he gave the most amazing toast at mine. There are few people that I am as abundantly proud to say I know as him and looking back, I cannot believe that he still loves me.