A wise woman once said “There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother. Oh, how I hated that little boy. And how I love him too.” I’m sure truer words have never been spoken—at least not about my brother Rob.
In hindsight, I should have known. I look back now at our lives and I clearly see the writing on the wall. Rob—or Robbie as I still call him—would prove to be the bane of my existence. Let’s face it, at the ripe-old age of 3, his curiosity got the better of him and he literally ripped the pull-string recorder out of my Mrs. Beasley doll. What kind of person does that? Never again would I hear my little old lady doll say “Gracious me, you’re getting to be such a big girl!” Bastard! Inevitably, doll torture became his forte. Ask our sister, Lisa. He once tied her precious Fisher Price Baby Ann to a tree outside during a vicious lightning storm. I still see her in her little print dress swinging wildly from a noose while Lisa wailed at the window. Yes. I should have known. We all should have known.
Robbie’s childhood was chock-FULL of “incidents.” Broken arms, broken legs, attempting to drive Mom’s Cadillac at 11 years old and running it into the front porch--he kept everyone on their toes. Mischief and mayhem were his middle and last name. Any doubts about that can be erased by Burel Gomillion. Once when running home after dark, Robbie tripped over a skunk and got sprayed—big time! My sister Lisa and I did everything we could. We doused him with soaps and perfumes and powders, but it did no good. The next day he went on a field trip and sat on the bus with Burel. Today he still giggles when he retells the story of Burel sniffing the entire way to Binghamton saying, “do you smell a skunk?” Trouble—with a capital “T.”
Nothing, however, NOTHING compares with his high school years. Let’s see, there was the time I ratted on him because he and some friends were ramming Carl Galavitz’s balls into a pole outside the high school. There was the time as a seventh grader that he wore a t-shirt to school under a sweatshirt so Mom wouldn’t see. “What’s wrong with that,” you ask? Let me tell you! The t-shirt said “CERTIFIED MUFF DIVER.” My sister and I were mortified. When we bring it up today, he just laughs and says,” I don’t even know if I knew what it meant, but the seniors thought I was awesome!”
And Robbie’s number one unforgiveable sin from our childhood? That would have to be telling all the kids at school that I had a cow’s eye transplant because I had such a severe lazy eye!!! Seriously? Seriously? AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!
So tell me then, why, when I think of my brother, I feel nothing but warmth and love. Along with my grandson, Jaxon, and my Dad, Bobby, Robbie is the most important man in my life and I’m pretty sure he walks on water. Of all my siblings, we are perhaps the closest. The love I feel FOR Robbie and FROM Robbie is truly the most unconditional. Together, we share all of our childhood dreams and memories as well as all of the hopes and dreams of adulthood. He is my brother, both little and big all rolled up into one. He was there for me when my husband left me after 20 years of marriage, and the first face I needed when we lost our beloved Dylan. Robbie is now 42 years old. He is slightly graying at the temples, has 2 kids and a wonderful wife whom I’m proud to call sister, and has recently started suffering from a bad back. But that’s not how I see him. In my mind’s eye, he will always be 9 years old, running around the yard with no shirt on, begging us girls to play baseball. No matter how much I grow up, Robbie and I are still children. And I’m happy about that.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Robbie
A wise woman once said “There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother. Oh, how I hated that little boy. And how I love him too.” I’m sure truer words have never been spoken—at least not about my brother Rob.
In hindsight, I should have known. I look back now at our lives and I clearly see the writing on the wall. Rob—or Robbie as I still call him—would prove to be the bane of my existence. Let’s face it, at the ripe-old age of 3, his curiosity got the better of him and he literally ripped the pull-string recorder out of my Mrs. Beasley doll. What kind of person does that? Never again would I hear my little old lady doll say “Gracious me, you’re getting to be such a big girl!” Bastard! Inevitably, doll torture became his forte. Ask our sister, Lisa. He once tied her precious Fisher Price Baby Ann to a tree outside during a vicious lightning storm. I still see her in her little print dress swinging wildly from a noose while Lisa wailed at the window. Yes. I should have known. We all should have known.
Robbie’s childhood was chock-FULL of “incidents.” Broken arms, broken legs, attempting to drive Mom’s Cadillac at 11 years old and running it into the front porch--he kept everyone on their toes. Mischief and mayhem were his middle and last name. Any doubts about that can be erased by Burel Gomillion. Once when running home after dark, Robbie tripped over a skunk and got sprayed—big time! My sister Lisa and I did everything we could. We doused him with soaps and perfumes and powders, but it did no good. The next day he went on a field trip and sat on the bus with Burel. Today he still giggles when he retells the story of Burel sniffing the entire way to Binghamton saying, “do you smell a skunk?” Trouble—with a capital “T.”
Nothing, however, NOTHING compares with his high school years. Let’s see, there was the time I ratted on him because he and some friends were ramming Carl Galavitz’s balls into a pole outside the high school. There was the time as a seventh grader that he wore a t-shirt to school under a sweatshirt so Mom wouldn’t see. “What’s wrong with that,” you ask? Let me tell you! The t-shirt said “CERTIFIED MUFF DIVER.” My sister and I were mortified. When we bring it up today, he just laughs and says,” I don’t even know if I knew what it meant, but the seniors thought I was awesome!”
And Robbie’s number one unforgiveable sin from our childhood? That would have to be telling all the kids at school that I had a cow’s eye transplant because I had such a severe lazy eye!!! Seriously? Seriously? AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!
So tell me then, why, when I think of my brother, I feel nothing but warmth and love. Along with my grandson, Jaxon, and my Dad, Bobby, Robbie is the most important man in my life and I’m pretty sure he walks on water. Of all my siblings, we are perhaps the closest. The love I feel FOR Robbie and FROM Robbie is truly the most unconditional. Together, we share all of our childhood dreams and memories as well as all of the hopes and dreams of adulthood. He is my brother, both little and big all rolled up into one. He was there for me when my husband left me after 20 years of marriage, and the first face I needed when we lost our beloved Dylan. Robbie is now 42 years old. He is slightly graying at the temples, has 2 kids and a wonderful wife whom I’m proud to call sister, and has recently started suffering from a bad back. But that’s not how I see him. In my mind’s eye, he will always be 9 years old, running around the yard with no shirt on, begging us girls to play baseball. No matter how much I grow up, Robbie and I are still children. And I’m happy about that.
In hindsight, I should have known. I look back now at our lives and I clearly see the writing on the wall. Rob—or Robbie as I still call him—would prove to be the bane of my existence. Let’s face it, at the ripe-old age of 3, his curiosity got the better of him and he literally ripped the pull-string recorder out of my Mrs. Beasley doll. What kind of person does that? Never again would I hear my little old lady doll say “Gracious me, you’re getting to be such a big girl!” Bastard! Inevitably, doll torture became his forte. Ask our sister, Lisa. He once tied her precious Fisher Price Baby Ann to a tree outside during a vicious lightning storm. I still see her in her little print dress swinging wildly from a noose while Lisa wailed at the window. Yes. I should have known. We all should have known.
Robbie’s childhood was chock-FULL of “incidents.” Broken arms, broken legs, attempting to drive Mom’s Cadillac at 11 years old and running it into the front porch--he kept everyone on their toes. Mischief and mayhem were his middle and last name. Any doubts about that can be erased by Burel Gomillion. Once when running home after dark, Robbie tripped over a skunk and got sprayed—big time! My sister Lisa and I did everything we could. We doused him with soaps and perfumes and powders, but it did no good. The next day he went on a field trip and sat on the bus with Burel. Today he still giggles when he retells the story of Burel sniffing the entire way to Binghamton saying, “do you smell a skunk?” Trouble—with a capital “T.”
Nothing, however, NOTHING compares with his high school years. Let’s see, there was the time I ratted on him because he and some friends were ramming Carl Galavitz’s balls into a pole outside the high school. There was the time as a seventh grader that he wore a t-shirt to school under a sweatshirt so Mom wouldn’t see. “What’s wrong with that,” you ask? Let me tell you! The t-shirt said “CERTIFIED MUFF DIVER.” My sister and I were mortified. When we bring it up today, he just laughs and says,” I don’t even know if I knew what it meant, but the seniors thought I was awesome!”
And Robbie’s number one unforgiveable sin from our childhood? That would have to be telling all the kids at school that I had a cow’s eye transplant because I had such a severe lazy eye!!! Seriously? Seriously? AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!
So tell me then, why, when I think of my brother, I feel nothing but warmth and love. Along with my grandson, Jaxon, and my Dad, Bobby, Robbie is the most important man in my life and I’m pretty sure he walks on water. Of all my siblings, we are perhaps the closest. The love I feel FOR Robbie and FROM Robbie is truly the most unconditional. Together, we share all of our childhood dreams and memories as well as all of the hopes and dreams of adulthood. He is my brother, both little and big all rolled up into one. He was there for me when my husband left me after 20 years of marriage, and the first face I needed when we lost our beloved Dylan. Robbie is now 42 years old. He is slightly graying at the temples, has 2 kids and a wonderful wife whom I’m proud to call sister, and has recently started suffering from a bad back. But that’s not how I see him. In my mind’s eye, he will always be 9 years old, running around the yard with no shirt on, begging us girls to play baseball. No matter how much I grow up, Robbie and I are still children. And I’m happy about that.
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