Sticks, Stones, and Broken Bones

I broke my toe the other night. Twice.
The first time was on the leg of the breakfast room table. I had just flipped my chicken breasts and unscrewed a nice bottle of wine, when I had an unexpected run-in with a solid piece of oak while trying to break up a pre-teen popcorn fight. The second time was five minutes later when I went to open the pantry door and a 10-pound jar of capers fell on top of the same toe from the highest shelf.
You might be wondering what the jar was doing all the way up there, and who needs a 10-pound jar of capers anyway? Well, it seems that somewhere along the way, my eldest child has developed a serious caper addiction. She eats them directly from the jar, has been known to order “caper sandwiches” at restaurants (you know, two pieces of bread with just capers in the middle), and even receives fancy imported varieties as birthday presents. So, if I am ever going to make my chicken picatta for dinner, I have to hide them way up high where she can’t reach them. But, I digress . . .
I’m not sure if my toe was actually broken, because I never got it X-rayed. What’s the point when all they’re going to do is tape all of your toes together anyway? Besides, it was my bum toe: the middle one on my right foot. Since birth, it’s been a little crooked and not quite as long as it should be. So, why should I even bother? My brother still hasn’t stopped making fun of that toe.
This is why I call foul on the old “sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you” mantra. Sometimes a wound caused by words causes more damage than a baseball hurled directly at your throat. Sure, it hurt pretty badly when my brother chucked his 15-inch Boba Fett action figure into my shin. When he told me that my crooked little toe was proof positive that I had been adopted from a band of traveling gypsies who had given me up so I could have a better life, it hurt a lot worse. I still can’t believe I fell for that one.
It wasn’t always like that, you know; the two of us trying to destroy each other by whatever means necessary. When he first came home from the hospital, I couldn’t get enough of him. I couldn’t hold him enough. I couldn’t push him in the stroller enough. And I sure couldn’t dress him up in all my pretty doll clothes enough. Then, the inevitable happened. He started to walk, talk, and throw things. As far as I was concerned, he was just lucky he couldn’t fit into the stroller anymore because I probably would have pushed it real hard in the K-Mart parking lot, and then let go.
My husband and his brother, Tommy, were no different. Their countless boyhood games of war in their backyard marsh soon turned into the ultimate battle of the kitchen knives over the last Pop Tart. And there are more ways to torture a sibling than through drop kicks and full nelsons, that’s for sure. In my husband’s case, it was through his stomach.
It’s important to note that Charlie, to this day, has never liked baked chicken. It comes with no sauce, no cheesiness, nothing to sop up with a piece of bread. It’s just . . . well, a piece of chicken. Throw in some rice and it’s the kiss of death. The way he recalls it, Tommy never really liked baked chicken either. But no matter, because whenever it was Tommy’s turn to pick what was for dinner, he’d turn to his brother, a wide grin plastered on his face, and say those two words Charlie dreaded most: “Baked chicken.” And just to drive the point home with the precision of a freshly honed scalpel, he’d turn back to his mom, smile even brighter, and say “with a side of rice too, please.”
I always assumed this “let’s hurt each other as much as possible until someone screams for Mommy” required a healthy dose of testosterone to keep it going. So when I found out the second time around at the ultra-sound that we were having another girl, I even sighed in relief.
Two girls. All right. I can handle this. They might cry a lot for no reason, slam a bunch of doors, and fight over who gets to wear the best pair of designer jeans, but surely one will never wing an unopened 12-oz. can of Mr. Pibb at the other’s head. Boy, was I wrong.
I honestly think you could have ringside seats at a roller derby and still wouldn’t see as much hair pulling, name calling, or full-body pushing than in my living room, car, and cul-de-sac. I’m told they’ll grow out of it. And as my broken little toe reminds me, I’m sure, eventually, they’ll do just that.
My brother is truly one of my favorite people in the world. Sure, it took a little bit of time. But now he’s the first one I like to talk to about movies and books I’ve just seen and read. If you see him with my daughters, your heart might just melt. Even Charlie and Tommy made it out relatively unscathed. If only y’all could have been there for last year’s Christmas karaoke at their mom’s house and seen their duet, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house from laughing so hard. I guess as tough and annoying as it is having to grow up sharing intimate spaces and places with someone who gets on your very last nerve, it ends up being a rare gift.
Siblings are our first real connection outside of the one we have with our parents. It’s the first attempt we get at testing the boundaries of a close relationship and learning what it means to actually be nice to another human being. We are able to see how much we can push, how much we can get away with, and, in the end, how much we can love and respect someone outside the sphere of our own little world.
I know I am lucky to have my brother in my life. Though I probably should apologize for just telling a bunch of people I used to dress him up in doll clothes. No hard feelings, right? I guess, in this one instance, it’s a good thing he lives in Birmingham.