I had a great childhood. I really cannot complain. My parents were happy, and in love, and completely selfless. I was an angel when I was young. Ask anyone. Ok, so I threw an occasional tantrum (read: threw things around the house and broke them out of spite, stomped around and slammed doors), was a pro at hissy fits, and questioned any decision my parents made. I was smart though. I pretty much got anything I wanted by convincing people then WANTED me to have said thing. I was a sweet, well-behaved child. I know this because I have an excellent memory. Elephants have nothing on me. I remember things that happened when I was as young as 1 ½ years old. I can vividly recount many instances from my childhood, and often I remind my family of things they had long forgotten.
That was until my parents told me they were having another baby. I had just turned 2 and discovered my new favourite sentences “I said no!” and “Because I said so.” When I did the math, I realized that this baby would need taking care of and my mom would not be at my beck and call anymore. I would not have it. I was MAD. I spent my days trying to figure out new ways to piss my parents off, with the hopes that they would decide they hate kids, return my unborn sibling to the doctor (I was 2, I did not know how babies were made), and spend every ounce of energy they had fawning over me. When I realized all this accomplished was being sent to my room to play alone, while I heard my parents laughing in the next room, I decided to change my game plan. From that second, I loved that baby. I wanted a sister. I wanted her to have brown hair and green eyes, and I was going to name her Taline. I was going to give her all my dolls in a cheap attempt to force my parents into buying me new ones. I was going to play with her every waking minute and sing her lullabies in the evenings. I was going to exhaust her so that after dinner, she would fall asleep and I could once again regain my rightful spot as the centre of my parents’ attention. I sat all my dolls and stuffed animals round me and went over the finer points of my strategy. It was a brilliant plan, and I would be triumphant.
Then the unimaginable happened. I was minding my own business, playing quietly in my room, when my dad ran into my room, grabbed my little teal suitcase, put a few dolls, my Bugs Bunny storybook, and my pyjamas in it and told me I had to go to my grandparents’ house. He explained that mommy and daddy had to go see the doctor to see if the baby was ready to come home. I reluctantly sat in the car, not making a sound, as my parents dropped me off and waved good-bye. This meant war. This baby was already monopolising my parents’ time and it was not even born yet. I was a complete brat at my grandparents’ house, in hopes they would call and beg my parents to take me home. Thing shortly worsened. Around 9 at night, my grandmother came to wake me up. My dad was on the phone, he wanted to talk to me. I sleepily said hello and he exclaimed “You are a big sister now, Kareene. Now go back to bed, tomorrow, you get your very own baby brother. I love you.” Excuse me? I do not think so. I specifically asked for a sister. Did no one listen? I pulled the covers over my head and vowed to get my revenge.
The next morning, my dad came to pick me and my grandmother up so we could go to the hospital. My grandma says I took about 2 hours to get out of bed, brush my teeth, get dressed, and have my breakfast. Apparently, she had told me to hurry up because my dad was in a rush, and I kept saying it was OK if they left without me. We went to the hospital and I was happy to see my mom, but I was mad at her, so I barely spoke to her. When she told my grandma about the pain and whatnot, I told her that was what happened when you decided to have babies. Then a nurse brought in this tiny pink blob wrapped in a blanket and handed it to my dad. My parents sat me down in a chair and introduced me to my brother, Patrick. My dad held the tiny blob and asked if I wanted to touch it. I said no. He asked if I wanted to kiss it. I said no. My mom finally told me that my job as a big sister was to protect and take care of the blob. To make them stop harassing me, I sat down and let my dad put the blob in my lap. As I held this tiny, blotchy thing in my arms, it opened its eyes and looked at me. At that second, I became a big sister. A proud big sister. I figured since I could not win, I might as well make him the best baby brother in the world.
A few weeks later, my parents made the wise decision to send me to nursery school. I was not pleased. Not only would I not get to supervise Pat, but he would be at home, all day, with my mom. It was now nearing the end of October and I was “the new kid”. I did not know any of the other kids, but the teacher was our neighbour Jenny, and therefore I was not all that miserable. I misbehaved the first few days, until I found out that when it was someone’s birthday, their mom made cupcakes. If there was one thing I loved more that getting what I want, it was cupcakes. It still IS cupcakes. Mmmm, cupcakes. Moving on… So about a week and 6 cupcakes later, it was show and tell. Having never participated in “show and tell” I was curious. I sat quietly listening to all the kids go on and on about their stupid dinosaurs, their vacation pictures, even their sombreros (come on, seriously, who is infatuated with sombreros?) What they were showing, I had no interest in seeing. What they were telling was ear pollution. I announced that I had something that was better than all their things and I would show them next time. It was a surprise, I was not telling anyone, not even Jenny, what was in store.
Lo and behold, two weeks later, I showed up at nursery school with a huge smile on my face. We had our snacks and as soon as we sat down for show and tell, I told Jenny I needed to go first. I stood up empty-handed, in front of all the other kids, with my pigtails and a huge smile and began talking. I have a knack for the dramatic. I told them that what I was going to show them, no one else had. I called in my mom and then said “I want to show you my baby brother, Patrick.” My point was to list all the negative things about him, I started by saying that he cried a lot, he could not play or talk, he pooped his pants all the time and did nothing but lay there all day. When all the kids started oohing and aahing, though, I had to change my game plan. I had dome my research, and found out that 3 people had baby sisters, one girl was a twin (whose brother went to school from 1-3 as opposed to 9-12 like us), but no one had a baby brother. No one had even seen a baby brother. I went on and on about how great he was, how he laughed at the silliest things, how he never told anyone your secrets, how he was amazed at a piece of string I dangled in front of him. This was great. I was once again where I belonged…as the centre of attention.
I now love Pat more than anything in the world, even my Strawberry Shortcake dress I wore for my birthday. I change his diaper, bathe him, feed him, entertain him, rock him, and burp him. No one can touch him without my permission. Fast forward a few months. My brother now sleeps in his crib, in his own room. I am not allowed in the crib, because I am a “big girl now”. Since his birth, I have a habit of snatching his pacifier and putting it in my mouth. I still have a habit of forgetting how to go to the bathroom. I do not want to be a big girl, I want to be a baby so I can be coddled and cuddled. Every morning, while my parents are still sleeping, I climb into his crib and read him the same two stories: “The Monster at the end of This Book” and “Cookie Monster and the Cookie Tree.” I sing along with the witch, and Pat laughs. This morning however, he was fussy and did not laugh. I was not amused. I kept singing and singing and waiting for him to laugh, but he did not. He whimpered instead. I asked him to stop crying, but he did not. I knew that if my parents came in the room and found me in the crib, I was in big trouble. I asked him again to stop. I turned on his mobile, which only scares him and made him begin to cry. Not knowing what to do to make him stop, I did the only logical thing…I BIT his tiny finger. I wanted this infant to stop crying, so I bit him and made his finger bleed. I wanted to hurt him so he would understand that I was serious. What does that say about my character? He let out the loudest scream imaginable, and at the same time, I began sobbing hysterically. Until this point, he was just a baby, he did not have feelings. That second, my heart broke. I knowingly hurt him. My mother rushed in, found us both in the crib, weeping.
I tried to explain, but I was so upset, I choked on my words and cried even louder. I was holding his tiny finger in my hand and begging forgiveness. My father ran in at this point, and asked what was going on. I explained and apologized and kept saying how much I loved him. I was sent to my room. Minutes later my parents came in and seeing the horrified look on my face told me that I was not going to be punished because they thought I felt bad enough already. I spent every second of my life after that making sure he never hurt again. I cuddled and coddled him. I loved him and hugged him so tight, my mom often had to pull me off him. To this day, I get choked up when I think about it. It is perhaps the only thing I regret in my whole life. Neither Pat nor my father remember this story, and they often tease me about it. I do not think they understand how badly scarred I am because of my actions. I hurt a helpless child to make him do what I wanted. And I felt remorse. That was the day I grew a conscience.
The moral of this story is that little brothers will often hold things over your head that they do not even remember, just to make you feel like crap.
