So, I tried to murder both of my sisters.
Before widen you judgmental eyes and stop reading this post in order to hurry and delete me from your Facebook friends, give me a second to explain my side of the story.
Actually it’s pretty much how it sounds. Delete away.
I was the eldest child and did not take kindly to the idea of new additions to my family. Of course, this is a common phenomenon in children. I’m currently watching my cousins, who are 8 and 6, go through the same thing in reaction to their mother’s being pregnant with twin boys.
Fortunately, being a respected adult-type figure in their eyes (they also think I’m really cool. It’s fantastic), I have been able to provide them with good advice.
“It’s going to be fine. You’re just like me now! I was the oldest and I got two new sisters. I wasn’t sure about the whole thing either, but look how wonderfully it turned out!”
They are comforted by the advice of someone that they trust, the parallels that I’ve drawn between them and myself, and their erroneous belief that Brecken and Lacey are also cool.
I’m glad I’ve been able to comfort them, but this advice is a lie.
I was right the first time, and they’re right now.
Siblings are trouble that should be avoided if at all possible.
Unfortunately, it falls to the parents to avoid this situation, and since I’ve seen nothing but proof of my theory that people get stupider as they get older and specifically once they have children (think about it: how many teenagers have you sigh “oh my goshhh my mother is ca-ray-zee” - there’s got to be something to this), I feel that their declining intelligence leads them to believe that more children would be a good idea.
So no, this is not new, this displeasure for change, this dislike of any aberration a child’s world. They get over it. They move on. They learn to live in a world where they are no longer the sole focus of their parent’s lives.
I’ve was always a little more stubborn and a little more proactive than most children were. At a young age, I was very goal oriented, ready to face any challenge presented to me. I wanted to be a policewoman on horseback, for God’s sake- there was no reason to start bowing to a threat now, only to have to unlearn the nasty habit in order to rule the streets of Jackson with an iron fist from atop my trusty steed, Marble.
This situation was no different. Despite my parents’ assurance that I would adjust and we’d be happier than ever (good one guys- Brecken snored like a wildebeest for the first five years of her life), I wasn’t taking anyone else’s word on something so important.
Instead, I would take action.
Of course, I do not remember this incident exactly. I’ve been told the story enough times to have the facts down correctly, and I’m going to assume that my thought process would have been approximately the same at age three that it is at age twenty-one. I’ll make the necessary allowance for the cynicism and pessimism that creep into one’s consciousness with age, but know that I was a relatively disillusioned three year old.
Fortunately for me, my father’s parents (this post) had recently returned from an Alaskan cruise. Being thoughtful grandparents, they brought me a gift. They brought me Alaskan rocks.
I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but what were they thinking? Nothing good could come out of a gift of rocks. I was certainly too young to appreciate that they were from Alaska (did I even know about Alaska? probably not. and I have to say, I was probably better off. my brain is too full today of useless information like the existence of Alaska and Kansas). They were of the same value to me as rocks from my next door neighbor’s back yard, which was just about nothing. As I could not appreciate their origin, the only other possible outcome of a child having rocks is some sort of damage to body or property.
I kept this in mind.
A few days after her overly dramatic arrival (she threatened to arrive a bit early, which was cool because I got to have my first sleepover at Lauren Whitton’s house in our matching Little Mermaid sleeping bags, and get this...she didn’t even come that night. I would learn later that this was extremely typical behavior of my sister. for more on that, see this post), Brecken was brought home.
I questioned the sanity of my parents and every adult that came to our house. Honestly, with all the cooing I don’t know how they could’ve expected me to take them seriously. She’d been at our house for less than two hours and already my parents had lost their minds.
This did not bode well.
My grandparents came to visit, and everyone predictably crowded around my father as he held Brecken in a recliner.
“Ashton,” he beckoned, “come say hello to your little sister.”
I was put out. I would not stoop to coo over her and count her little fingers, especially not for the benefit of lookers-on.
I picked up my rocks and walked over. While every eye in the room focused on my three day old sister, I raised one fist two feet over her and opened it.
The rock fell.
This is not actually a big deal - I have horrible aim. I can rarely successfully manage the timeless crumpled sheet of paper and trash can obstacle.
My parents disagreed. Apparently attempted murder (if you are taking me seriously** now is a good time to note that I was not actually trying to kill her. I may be crazy but not that particular brand of crazy). I was quickly given a three day pass to my grandparents’ house.
The next episode would take place a few years (maybe- I am not extremely clear on the developmental timeline with regard to children. this story took place after the amount of time that it takes a child to learn how to walk) later, shortly after Brecken had learned to walk. I had finally given up my dream of getting rid of her, and ironically almost achieved it.
In an ill conceived attempt at bonding (these attempts would grind to a screeching halt shortly thereafter), I suggested that we play “dog”. Brecken agreed enthusiastically (she never has had any sense of self preservation) and held relatively still while I tied a jumprope around her neck.
Stop looking at me like that. There was some slack. More importantly (very, very importantly. really- pay attention to this part), I didn’t know any better.
We played dog for a while, meaning that she crawled around on all fours, barking, while I walked around behind her holding the other end of a leash.
This game is only for fun for so long; after a while I decided to park my dog and head into a coffee shop or something. Well, everyone knows that you can’t just leave your dog running around free- they’ll run into the street, for heaven’s sake.
So I tied her leash to the baby bed.
The problem that my parents (and anyone who’s not a fan of baby-killing) had with this little maneuver was that I did so while she was standing up, and that if she had fallen (a very real risk at this developmental stage), she might have hung herself on the jumprope a little bit.
Again, I did not have this in mind. I just wanted to play dog.
The third and last attempt probably had the greatest chance of actually resulting in death, or at least serious damage. I was seven years old and decided that I would give Brecken a rest and try to kill Lacey for a change.
Lacey was an infant that I personally considered to be ill-timed. We were in the beginning stages of building a new house when she arrived. In this particular instance, we were visiting the site of our new house, which then was nothing more than a concrete slab.
I was seven years old, and this baby did not daunt me so much. Brecken, however, was suffering psychological damage that I admit I do not think she has recovered from yet. (she couldn’t speak correctly and insisted on running around the house, hands over her ears, yelling “Make huwww stoooowwp” whenever Lacey would cry). I, o the other hand, was older and more responsible. I could actually help my parents out this time.
I took to the new responsibilities with the enthusiasm of a power hungry military dictator to-be.
On this particular occasion, I decided to push the stroller around the lot while my parents talked shop with whomever they were talking shop. At some point, I pushed her stroller onto the concrete slab that would soon rest under our house.
To make a long story short, I went too close to the edge, which resulted in a wheel catching the side of the slab and the whole stroller flying off of the slab, landing three feet down on the ground.
I was later told that had I listened to my parents’ jabbering about buckling the baby into the car seat, she would not have rolled so far after it fell.
Newborns.
I saw this all happening in slow motion, realized that I had probably caused irreversible damage to my youngest sister, and high-tailed it.
Seriously, I just took off running. I ran, and I ran, and I ran until I was breathless and my legs ached and threatened to give out. I sank to the ground by the foot of a huge oak tree.
At this point I was about three hundred yards from the point at which I had dropped Lacey. It would be eleven more years before I could run with any sort of skill.
I was devastated. I had probably killed Lacey. I could never go back home. I would be alone, a wandering vagabond for the rest of my days. This was extremely upsetting, as I had planned to be at least thirteen before I left home.
I cried.
Ten minutes later my father came and retrieved me. Lacey was only a little scuffed and I was forgiven.
Fourteen years have passed since I last chanced killing one of my sisters. I maintain that the earlier incidents were all accidents, and that I had no intention of hurting them.
Plus, I’m glad that things have turned out the way they did. At any given time, I like at least one of my sisters. It’s nice to have a spare to be mad at.
And it’s nice to have something to threaten them with.
“Remember that time...”
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**Do not ever take me seriously.
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