Brown-Eyed Curly-Top

The middle child is having her birthday today.

Maybe you've heard about it. As Joe Biden said about this historic moment in the history of the world, "it's a big fuckin' deal."

Really, it is.

She's 33, but her life reads like an episode of "Teen Mom." If "Teen Mom" were a book.

My sister is unlike anybody else I know, and she's certainly desperately unlike anybody I would ever choose to deliberately associate with. She's the most self-centered person I know, and that's saying a lot, because I majored in theatre as an undergraduate and, consequently, I know a lot of people who are convinced with absolute certainty that their decision to get out of bed in the morning or drop a meadow-muffin is a potent, powerful and positive message to the rest of the world.

My sister is more self-absorbed than any theatre major ever could be. And I doubt very much that she would be offended at my saying that, because it would mean that she's first at something-- best at something, and even if being first and best at being selfish is her reward, she'd wear that bright red ribbon proudly.

When her son was born about half-a-year ago, she could not possibly understand why people like my parents were more interested in the baby than they were in her. She grew instantly jealous of the attention that her beautiful, sweet son received-- like a petty older sibling might. Dissatisfied though she may be with my parent's wandering attentions and affections, she's still content to bring her son to them at least twice a week (and often for overnight stays) to be babysat, as well as heavy bags of her laundry, along with her husband's and her son's for my mother to do.

Did I mention that she's turning 33 today?

My sister is beautiful, and always was, and maybe that's part of the problem. She's been able to pretty her way out of traffic tickets and punishments and bad grades, her big chocolate and volumes of cascading dark brown curls just melting troubles and consequences away like a fresh spring rain clears the world of a lingering heavy snowdrift. My mother used to call her "Brown-Eyed Curly-Top." Some of the things that she's called my mother in the heat of battle, well, even I'm too embarrassed to reprint here.

But, then again, maybe I'm just an aging mama's boy who's jealous of his badass older sister.

Maybe.

My sister is unlike anybody I know, and that's for sure. I struggle in my relationship with her, like lots of siblings do, I suppose. I go through periods where I judge her, and spite her, and ignore her, and attack her, and support her, too. I try, but it never lasts long. An unreasonable demand or a self-aggrandizing comment, a cutting remark or an obnoxious text will plunge me back where I don't want to be but all too often find myself-- that place where I sit and brood and wonder just who the fuck she thinks she is anyway.

"Why is my sister the way she is?" I asked my wife as we were just about to descend into a haze of sleep last night.

"Why is my brother the way he is?" she replied.

"Well," I said, burrowing deeper under the covers, "I know your mom just blames your dad for him, but I don't think that's fair entirely. And I don't think it would be fair to just blame my dad for my sister. There's always more to it than overindulgence..."

Our pre-bedtime conversations aren't always this lucid. Most of the time they're totally incoherent and sometimes slightly disturbing.

We didn't come to any conclusions last night, and the conversation was not picked up this morning, as we struggled to find some Passover-friendly alternative to cereal for breakfast and make sure Molly made it outside without peeing all over the green rug in the living room, but I'm still thinking about it, obviously. And still hurting over it-- all of it.

Most of all, over the fact that I sat down determined to write a happy birthday blog about my sister, and this is what came out.