Confessions of an Antagonistic Older Brother

My parents deserve to be sainted...even though they lack even an ounce of Catholic street cred.

After raising four children--one boy, three girls, including a set of twins, it's a wonder that my parents let any of us see a double digit birthday. Don't get me wrong, to the outside world, we were good kids, but boy, could we bug the ever-living crap out of each other.

In some ways, I blame vehicular engineering. This was before the advent of the SUV. Now, kids reside in their little fortresses of solitude, beyond the reach of antagonizing siblings. We, however, grew up in the era of the station wagon (80s kids everywhere just shuttered in unison), sporting bench seat technology designed to sit three people comfortably...allegedly. Anyone who has ever sat three butts to a bench will tell you it is anything but comfortable and a brawl is an eventual certainty. You can't help it, any design that forces siblings to touch is woefully flawed.

With only four years of separation between the oldest (yours truly) and the youngest (the twins-Becca & Sara), the teenage era in the Newhouse casa was a repetitious mash-up of hormonal tears, ill-timed acne, relationship drama, persistent self loathing...and that was just me. Once you factored in my sisters, you had what in today's lingo would be referred to as...a hot mess.

Let's just say, the formative years among the Newhouse children were not peaceful ones, and as the oldest, I fully acknowledge that I (perhaps) may have (possibly) been the instigator in a fair number (most) of our conflicts...so much so that I (might) have apologized to them in recent years (on more than one occasion). It's called maturity, folks.

That lengthy introduction sets the context for this next tale...of an incident of which my parents have long been ignorant. Now that we're all at least 30, I am somewhat confident Mom won't ground us. Let's test out that theory, shall we?

I remember it well. Mom and Dad had left us home alone while they ran some sort of errand--possibly to buy Christmas presents, have the car serviced, or simply get the hell away from us--and I was placed in charge as per usual. Now, understand, I embraced the role of the eldest sibling with gusto, not to ensure the safety and care of my sisters, but rather...to boss them around. Sisterly in-fighting had left their collective resolve weak, never growing wise that if they just joined forces, they could shift the balance of power in moments.

On this night, I distinctly remember knowing my parents ETA, and we were t-minus 30 minutes. I was holding court in the kitchen near my middle sister, Carrie. Becca and Sara were on the couch squabbling with each other. Growing tired of the twin-fighting (see what I did there), I grabbed each one by the shoulder gently-ish as if to say, "Cool it.," and inadvertently (I promise) pulled Sara's hair in the process.

What happened next occurred in Matrix-like slow motion.

Sara stood up, lifted her nearly full glass of soda...and I hit the deck. From the safety of the floor, I watched as the liquid projectile arched towards the kitchen and connected with an unseen target, showering liquid everywhere.

Knowing my sister was out of ammo, I prepared to depart the floor and apologize, but just as I began to raise my head, I saw another glass of soda come flying from the opposite direction. In horror, I realized that in my instinctual act of self-preservation, Carrie had gone from innocent bystander to drenched victim, and though Carrie's throw landed true, Becca was close enough to become collateral damage in the process. Suddenly, I was no longer the target of sisterly rage; simply a fly on the wall (or rather the floor) observing the most intense verbal barrage I'd ever witnessed.

Cognizant that the parental units would be home any minute and soda stains were quickly becoming permanent, I sprung to my feet, intending to say something eloquent to calm emotions and restore peace. Instead what came out was, "Mom...Dad...we are all going to die!"

Without speaking, we sprang to action--sopping, scrubbing, and scouring ever piece of carpet, cushion, or linoleum found within the splash zone. Suddenly, we went from super slo-mo to hyperspeed (cue cleaning montage), and just like in the movies, the last wad of soda soaked paper towels landed in the trash just as Mom and Dad pulled into the driveway.

You see, nothing brings siblings together like the collective fear of parental punishment. Amidst intense conflict we came together under a united goal--to save our own asses. There's no motivation quite as powerful.

Nowadays, we get along splendidly, partly because we crammed 60 good years of conflict into 14 years of life, and primarily as it turns out, my sisters are pretty cool people. Who'd have thought?

So Mom, I hope you found this tale more amusing than upsetting. Just think, all those years of blissful ignorance...shattered with one blog post.

Hmm...maybe I should have thought this through a bit.