The Press and Journal (Aberdeen and Aberdeenshire)
BIG BROTHER KEPT A WATCH OVER ME AND I’M GRATEFUL
Nobody warns you that having multiple children is a curious thing. One kid is one kid. Two kids are two kids. Three kids? Somewhere nearer 792,644,463 hurricanes and a donkey.
One child trusted implicitly. Easily left alone for the whole weekend. No parties. The dogs walked, doors locked, dishes washed and a piece of fruit eaten.
Another who can’t be trusted to hold their own umbrella without poking an eye out. And finally the third who lands somewhere in an as yet untried no man’s land.
The biggest was asked once to pop home from university while we went away for a night.
The middle was furious because not only had we got them a babysitter, but one she would have to feed and look after. Fair point, but how do we maintain safety and balance without offence?
I’m not saying raising bigger kids is harder than raising little ones. It’s just different. I fondly remember it sounded more like I was in charge when they were small and literally had to look up to me.
Middle was our most mischievous. Nothing drastic, she just always knew her own mind and once it was made up, there was no derailing the path she’d chosen. Sighing wearily during one particular park trip, another mother, having noticed the Peppa Pig wellies, announced she didn’t let her (immaculate) little girl watch that particular programme. It encouraged bad behaviour.
Imagine! The horror! An appropriately dressed child jumping in muddy puddles!
I just laughed as I remembered how my brother grew up watching Road Runner and yet, to my knowledge, we haven’t blown anyone up with dynamite.
Siblings are funny like that. Eye rolling, arguing, indignation over unfair treatment, sheer horror over outfit choices. And please nobody put two and two together and announce us as brother and sister at school.
Did anyone else’s relationship with their sibling randomly become normal after disapproving of each other growing up?
To be fair, he wasn’t a bad lad. He was quiet, kind and clever. Too clever for the wee dunce following in his footsteps at a school where the teachers point blank refused to believe we were related. A three-year gap, a relatively common surname, his giant brain-filled 6ft 6in ginger-topped lankiness. It was confusing alongside my 5ft 6in “bonnie but not bright” tubbiness.
I was louder. No surprise. Known as one who talked too much in class. He was studious, destined for great things, and not just height-wise. Accepted to read engineering at university while I was learning which shops were lax at checking ID for fags and booze.
He never needed nagged about arriving home after curfew, having been dropped off by some random lad. Or the next morning’s hangover.
We were simply chalk and cheese. Unable to grasp each other’s life choices, even if I quietly admired him for it.
Happy enough to call him awful nicknames relating to his giant stature or (beautiful) flame red hair. But if anyone else tried? Absolutely not.
Nobody got to insult my personal taxi driver. Especially when he would drive me home the long way round, the windows down to sober me up. Or help me upstairs, reminding me of the squeaky step that would waken our parents.
He knew I didn’t need him to fight my battles. But he was right there, only mildly disapproving, offering solutions and advice when I recounted what my most recent mess was.
The background support any teenage girl needs from her big brother. Quietly championing, from the sidelines, without question.
He still does all that, even now I’m 46.
Everyone warned me how difficult being a parent raising teens would be.
I often think of my poor mother and what we, mostly me, put her through.
But, it’s also really amazing. Teens are amazing. I don’t think that gets said enough.
And somehow, I hope my kids find the love and support in each other that my reluctant but tolerant big brother gave to me. What did we do to deserve big brothers?
Happy 50th Birthday Rocket, I’m really rather fond of you, but I’ll still deny it if I’m asked.