I’m a little jealous of my own daughter. She has my dream life. As a young girl, I longed for older brothers. My friend Casey had lots of older brothers. So did Lori. Lucky girls. I just had sisters. Older sisters can sometimes be—well—bossy. (Shhh. Don’t tell them I said that. I mean other people’s big sisters.) Older brothers would never be bossy. They would be fun, and they would bring their friends over, who would also be fun. And maybe good-looking.
Someday Geneva will tell me what it’s like to have brothers, and I’ll tell her what it’s like to have sisters, but I can already see some pretty major differences.
Brothers are physical. Very. For instance, if you’re a baby lying on the floor, they won’t just walk around you. They will crawl over you and then turn around and do it again. Or sit on top of you and laugh hysterically.
Brothers have three toys: Legos. Cars. A football. Legos can become anything, especially weapons. Cars can double as trains. A football is just perfect the way it is.
Lego gun
Brothers are loud. They growl, grunt, and shout at each other. Sometimes their playing sounds like fighting sounds like playing. When a brother messes up a perfect row of cars lined up for a race, he gets pummeled. When a little sister messes up a perfect row, she may hear a groan or even a howl, but she never gets pummeled. (RIGHT, BOYS??)
Brothers are tender with their baby sisters, in a rambunctious, boy sort of way. They have a special high-pitched voice reserved just for her. “Hi, Baby Geneva,” they’ll coo, just before they sit on her or throw a ball she can’t possibly catch. (Yet.) They look out for her, making sure she doesn’t crawl too close to the stairs or swallow any tiny Lego pieces. And when she cries, they console her by sharing their football, which makes her wave her arms in delight.
It’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship, and lucky me, I get to witness it.