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As promised I took the twins to the dinosaur museum over the weekend.  While we were there I realized my brother is raising a teenage daughter, and not just any teenager, but a bratty one.  Which makes me love her even more.

Every time I looked over at Hannah during the 3-D movie she had taken off the glasses.  I tried to explain to her that she needed to wear them to get the full effect.  The first time she listened to me and immediately put the glasses back on.  The second time, however, she didn’t.  Instead she glared at me, pointed her chubby, little finger in my face and screeched, “Sarah, don’t you dare make me freak out at you, because I will!”

It was the single bitchiest thing she’s ever said to me.  I was so pleased I leaned over and gave her a kiss.  This, of course, pissed her off even more.  “Aunt Sarah, seriously I WILL freak out at you if I have to.”

I left her alone, because I, of all people, understand the need to freak out. I love the hell out of this little girl, and feel sorry for anyone who will someday date her.  Seriously.

Today my little brother Jeff turns 28.  Or was it 27.  I forget.  I won’t see him on his birthday.  I didn’t last year, or the year before that.  We used to be as close as siblings could be, but things changed.  Jeff changed.  And I am not good with change.

He’s still a good person. He calls our mother more often than I do.  He buys my grandparents extravagant gifts that I can’t afford.  He makes an effort, but it’s not the same as it once was.  Things happened.  Life happened.

I miss my baby brother, but realize our relationship won’t ever be what it once was.  And I’m finally at a place in my life where I’ve accepted that.

I hate the term ex-wife.  I always have.  When my favorite sister-in-law, Holli, and my brother recently divorced I wasn’t sure how to refer to her on this blog.  In the “character” section she’s referred as the mother of my niece and nephew.  As the only girl in my family, Holli has been the only sister I have ever known, and I’m not quite ready to give that up.

The divorce has been an adjustment not just for my brother, but also for the entire family.

We don’t email or text one another as much as we used to, so last night when I got a text message asking if I wanted to meet her and the kids at Starbucks I jumped at the chance.  I see the kids as much as I always have, but not her.  I miss our girl time.

When I arrived I noticed Holli was wearing a pair of shoes I had given her.  At that moment everything that has transpired between she and my brother was instantly gone.  They can deal with their shit, and leave Holli and I to discuss more important things like shoes and how damn cute the kids are.

And they so, so are.  Last night, my darling niece, Hannah, confessed she only ordered the strawberry frappuccino because it’s pink. I smiled and realized that even though Holli and I won’t be sharing the same last name forever, we will always have Hannah and Carter in common.

Fathers Day this year wasn’t quite as happy as years past. The only home life my beloved niece and nephew have known ended over the weekend when their mommy moved out.

Our family met at Matt’s house for a BBQ.  Ben and I walked in to find my nephew, Carter, laying on the floor where the couch once was with his baby blanket.  My dad had warned me it was going to be a rough day for everyone, and he has never been so right.

Carter was pretty upset by the ordeal. He’s such a tender little guy and seeing him so sad, and knowing I couldn’t help him broke my heart. Ben, on the other hand, was thrilled. Not because he’s a horrible person and enjoys family pain, but because Carter was so upset he let Ben hold him. This is a very rare occurrence.

Hannah, was her cheerful self and informed me she is way luckier than I am because she has two houses and I don’t have any. I didn’t pour my Diet Coke on her head, and instead gave her a new shirt from Mrs. AK and Little AK. She was ecstatic when I told her they had bought one for me as well. “Aunt Sarah, I want to help throw Uncle Mean (Ben) away.”

When the divorce is final I think I’ll throw my brother a fresh meat themed party. I plan to only serve bacon and invite hookers. He wasn’t keen on the hookers, but agreed on strippers. “You know for Ben’s enjoyment.”

My parents are Mormon and don’t drink alcohol. I am not, and do. Usually this really doesn’t affect our relationship, beyond the occasional you’re going to hell lecture. I love my parents, I really do. I just don’t love their chosen religion. I love a good Shiraz way more than I love Baby Jesus. That being said…

Last night Ben and I were driving to meet our parents for dinner.

Me: “I had a long day and since I can’t go home and drink wine on my couch I’m ordering it with dinner. Consider yourself warned.”

Ben: “WHAT?? You can’t do that. Mom and Dad will freak out.”

Me: “Too bad. I specifically choose Red Butte Café so I could order a glass. Having one glass of wine may cast me into outer darkness, but the world will not end.”

Ben: “ I’m not letting you drag me into this. I will take you to the bar afterwards and get you as drunk as you want, just please do not order wine with dinner. Please?”

Me: “Fine. If it’s that important to you I won’t. But I’m ordering a dietfuckingcoke then.”

Ben: “How old are you?”

Me: “12.”

Ben: “OK, I can live with that. You’ll get a dirty look from mom, but there won’t be any yelling.”

Me: “I think saying fuck is a lot more offensive to her than ordering wine. I’m willing to bet you one bar tab on it. We’ll ask her when Dad goes to pay for dinner.”

We did and she was horrified that Ben even asked her. “You know how much I hate that word, Benjamin,” she hissed at him. And for once I came out looking like the good kid!  The good kid that’s getting shit-faced on Ben’s tab all weekend long.

My brother was out of town yesterday so I picked up his four-year-old twins from daycare.  I knew it was going to be a good night when I walked in and Hannah started jumping up and down and told her teacher, “That’s my aunt Sarah, she’s a total rockstar.”

As per usual, the ride home consisted of Jesus talk.  These kids are just as obsessed with him as I am.  So much for the Jesus talk dying  (Puntastic, no?) down after Easter.

“Aunt Sarah, we have to take a different road home.”

“Why, buddy?”

“Because Jesus brought a big, yellow pipe and left it on our street.”

“Um… why would Jesus leave a pipe in your street?”

“Aunt Sarah, the road is broken.  Some big tractors came and dug it up, and then Jesus left a big, yellow pipe to fix it with.”

“Did this Jesus guy have a hard hat on?”

“Yes.”

“Buddy, I’m pretty sure that was a construction worker, not Jesus.”

“NOOO, it was Jesus… I just know it.”

“Seriously, buddy, I know for a fact Jesus is not a construction worker.  Grandma told me he was a carpenter.”

Silence.  Oh heavenly silence.

And then… in an amazed tone he asks, “Grandma knows Jesus?!”

Fuck.

I wanted to tell him that his grandma is obsessed with Jesus.  And not in the fun/blasphemous way I am, but in the “Jesus is the Savior” kind of way.  I’ll let him figure that one out on his own.

When my mom called last night I thought either she read her will on the Internet and wanted to call and confirm validity, or she was calling to thank me for her Mothers’ Day gift. While neither were the case, she did laugh over the fact I added my gas receipt to her card. Yes, that’s right, I love my mother $44.12 dollars more than Ben does. Proving once again I am a superior being. As it turns out she wanted to talk about something far more important. My death.

“Thanks for driving down yesterday. I’m upset I forgot to have you, Matt and Ben sign some paperwork.”

“What paperwork? If you’re trying to adopt us out I think you’re too late, we are, after all, adults now.”

“Sweetie, I’ve not gotten rid of you yet, so it’s not likely going to happen, besides I’m counting on you to take care of me when I’m old. I figure you owe me. I want you guys to fill out a living will, so if something were to happen to you I’d know what your wishes were.”

“That’s probably a good idea. Is there somewhere in there I can request male strippers and vodka on my deathbed? But why doesn’t Jeff have to fill anything out? You’re getting rid of him, right?”

“Sarah, please be serious about this.  Jeff has a wife that can legally make his decisions.”

“So let me get this straight, because Matt, Ben and I don’t have spouses you’re punishing us with homework?”

“If you’d rather produce a husband that’s fine too.  I’m emailing you the paperwork tomorrow, so you better hurry and find a man.”

On my last birthday my mom handed me a blank birthday card and said, “Here’s your card sweetie. I didn’t have time to fill it out, so can you? You’re a writer, write yourself something thoughtful and appropriate.”

Last night I found the card in a book. It reads:

Darling Daughter,

Happy Birthday sweetie! You’re by far the best accomplishment of my life. As your gift this year I want to give you the world. However, since I don’t have that authority I’m going to give you everything else.

Consider this my last will and testament. I’m leaving everything your dad and I own to you, and only you. Your brothers are not to inherit anything. I’m forever apologetic that you were forced to grow up alongside such horrible boys. I hope this one act will make up for a childhood of brothers farting and burping on you. I trust this will guarantee forgiveness as well as place me a spot in the heaven place I’m forever talking about, which I imagine is much like a cruise: a good idea at the time, but miserable as fuck.

Catch you on the flip side.

Love your Mommy.

My heart broke a little bit today.  I’ve known for a while that my brother and his wife are getting a divorce, but it wasn’t until today that I knew their four-year-old twins, Hannah and Carter, knew.  My brother and his wife are both out of town on business, so I’m staying with the kids for a few days.

Hannah: “Aunt Sarah I have to tell you something…  Mommy isn’t going to live with Daddy anymore because she’s going to get her own house. We might live there with her.”

Me: “But who’s going to live with your Daddy? He’ll get incredibly lonely living all by himself.”

Hannah: “He’s going to get a new Carter.  Or maybe you can live with him Aunt Sarah.”

Me: “Hannah that’s silly.  There is no such thing as a new Carter.  We only have one Carter and Daddy isn’t getting a new Carter.  He’s getting a new car.  Different, but very close.”

Carter: “Maybe when I grow up I can buy a house where Mommy, Daddy and Hannah can all live and nobody will fight.”

Hannah: “Maybe when I grow up I can be Jasmine because she is a total princess.”

Me: “This is much too serious of a conversation for you guys to be having over dinosaur chicken nuggets.”

Hannah: “Yeah, we should go to Starbucks.”

I got a few emails after my last post telling me what a crappy sister I am, which is funny because that’s not really mean. I’ve done worse things to my brothers. Far worse.

I’m an older sister, if I’m not going to make them tough, who will?

Ben had it easy, compared to my brother Jeff–who, by the way, totally deserved it 94% of the time. Well he probably didn’t deserve the bruises Matt and I left, but we were smart kids and knew what a pain in the ass he would end up being for us.

I was five when my parents brought Jeff home from the hospital, and Matt was four. The world as we knew it ended that warm July day. This new baby got all the attention. Suddenly my mom didn’t have time to listen to my tales of witches living inside my bedroom walls, or the extra time to make sure every single grain of Rice Krispies cereal in my bowl matched. Off-colored pieces were certainly going to be the death of me.

All her spare time was devoted to the care of this baby. This baby who did nothing but eat and shit, which was totally boring.

I convinced Matt that our parents would take Jeff back to the hospital if he were defective. I knew this because she did it with my favorite hula-hoop. Who cares if the pink sparkles rubbed off on the furniture—it just make the couch prettier.

Our plan was to make Jeff cry all the time. I heard my dad complain about crying babies once so I knew he hated it. Over the next three weeks Matt and I pinched Jeff every chance we got. He had bruises everywhere and howled constantly.

Sadly, the plan backfired when my parents spent more time with him than before. Trying to soothe a miserable baby is apparently quite time consuming. It also required taking him to the doctor more often to determine the cause of the bruising.

In the end my parents kept Jeff, and I spent the rest of our childhood finding other ways to torture him. Though now, I can’t help but wonder if my constant bruising is the universe’s way of telling me I was a shitty sister.