July 7, 2008

Sibling Rivalry

July 4th was my sister’s 29th birthday. Every year, we have a cook-out/birthday party at my parent’s house. While my sister opened her presents (one of mine to her was a pair of silky underwear with rings all over it-hint, hint, boyfriend), my Dad disappeared. He came back a few minutes later with a piece of folded up paper.

I should note here that since my sister was born on a popular summer holiday, she always has a party. Since I was born in the dead of winter (February 7th), parties don’t happen. Once, my elementary slumber party had to be canceled because we had feet upon feet of snow. As an adult, I often get the old "the weather might be bad so I don’t know if I’ll be able to go out for dinner with you for your birthday" excuse. No one wants to celebrate a birthday when they’d rather be hibernating. It’s depressing and entirely unfair.

So, when my Dad announced that he had a poem to read to my sister, I couldn’t help but mentally roll my eyes. My Dad is not a poet, never has been, at least as far as I know. I think of him more like an algebra dictator, but that’s just my experience with him.

He started reading this poem about my sister. He talked about how bravely she approached her back surgery while in high school. He talked about driving her to flight school in Florida, only to have her change her mind after being there one day, which resulted in a mad rush drive back home so that they could enroll her at Penn State (my Dad’s alma mater). We should also note here that I am a graduate of Pitt and was not allowed to even look at out of state schools. If I had known that wanting to go to flight school would have gotten me to Daytona Beach, FL, I would have considered getting over my fear of heights.

The poem continued with the theme of "we couldn’t be prouder of you." I thought I might gag.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my sister, but she hasn’t exactly been a saint. She hasn’t exactly made my life easier either. When she was a baby, she knocked down my blocks. When I was a teenager, she used to try to spy on me and my friends. When my parents bought be a Geo Metro the summer after my freshman year in college, they made me keep it at home while I went back to school. She proceeded to "decorate" my car with Christmas lights while I was away. It was already pretty hard to make a Metro look cool. That did not help. The very next year, they allowed her to go trade it in for a purple Nissan AND allowed her to drive it to school. I almost always had to ride the bus, and when I did get to drive it was a beat-up Escort station wagon. I’m not complaining, but it wasn’t exactly a cool car for a high school girl.

After college, my sister got engaged and moved in with a total creep; and we had to move her out of that house in seven hours (before he got home from work). She also has six pets: three huge dogs and three cats. One of them spontaneously poops on my Mom’s floor whenever she dog-sits her. Not even my kids do that kind of stuff.

Because I’m totally mature, I spent the rest of the day and night playfully reminding everyone of my sister’s screw-ups. I also whined and complained that my Dad never wrote a poem about me. I told my sister she can quit calling me the favorite child; it’s quite clear I’m not.

And then it all became very clear. . . my Dad totally wrote that poem to throw her off. I really am the favorite daughter.

I’m the one who watched hockey with him from the time I was born while my sister preferred Sesame Street. I’m the one who played softball and made the all-star team while my sister showed no such interest in anything "sport." Like my Dad, I’m the one who gets grossed out by licky dogs (it must be genetic), while my sister practically makes out with hers. I’m the one who gave him two fabulous grand-daughters while my sister continues to up her animal count and bring them for frequent and mostly unwanted visits to my parent’s house.

I’m also the one moving in with my parents, in less than four weeks, for the second time in my adult life, this time bringing three family members along with me . . .

Something tells me there won’t be any poems written about me anytime soon, at least not good ones anyway.