The short ones have taken my camera. I want it back. Unfortunately, nobody knows where that shiny little fella is. Or they're not telling. There's nobody who is being a tattle-tale. No breaking that sibling code of silence.
At least those little future felons are loyal.
My brothers and I were very serious about not telling on each other, after we reached the Certain Age of Realization where the brilliance of not ratting illuminated us like the...umm... uh... oh I don't know what. But it was a good moment in our lives. The Inclination That One Would Undergo Bodily Harm or Be Arrested were the two reasons to blow a sibling in to the authorities.
It was great. There was a decided decrease in fighting, much less kicking under the table, nasty looks, beat-downs. And much less getting into Actual Trouble.
It did not put a complete end to the fighting, I clearly remember a fistfight between Uncle Benna and someone over a game of Monopoly. It's so fuzzy...Who could it have been?...Maybe it was a girl?...No, well, could it maybe have been me?...It was so long ago that it's hard to say who it was. But anyway, it was a doozy. And Uncle Benna started it.
And there was that one time at Christmas dinner when I was nine months pregnant, and Uncle-I-Know-Things refused to stop telling me I was fat. He and his wife, soon-be-Auntie Teff to the incubating babe, hadn't endured a pregnancy yet, and he did not have the valuable information that YOU DO NOT TELL A WOMAN IN HER NINTH MONTH OF PREGNANCY THAT SHE IS FAT, MORON. He was duly warned, a number of times, and I was forced to stand, er, lumber up out of my seat, lean over the table (read: lie in the mashed potatoes), and punch him in the mouth. I'm not proud of this moment, I was simply doing what needed to be done. But do not be concerned for Uncle I-Know-Things; I promise you I hit like a girl. A very little, pansy-assed girl. I believe he actually laughed, but to his credit, he did manage to control himself until I had locked myself in the bathroom to cry.
Not that this has anything to do with my siblings, but now I'm stuck thinking about being knocked, so here's another tale to confuse or something. I had an interesting little hormone issue going on during my first pregnancy that was kindasorta like a game show. We called it Laughing or Crying? And we tried not to play. Here's why: someone inevitably said something, and funny or not, I would laugh. At the verysame instant I would begin laughing, my family would begin taking bets on how long I would laugh before I burst into tears. And nobody ever knew what to expect, especially me. I did not really enjoy this game.
However, my ability to function did improve with each subsequent pregnancy. At least, that's what they tell me.
Too bad nobody will tell me about my camera.
At least those little future felons are loyal.
My brothers and I were very serious about not telling on each other, after we reached the Certain Age of Realization where the brilliance of not ratting illuminated us like the...umm... uh... oh I don't know what. But it was a good moment in our lives. The Inclination That One Would Undergo Bodily Harm or Be Arrested were the two reasons to blow a sibling in to the authorities.
It was great. There was a decided decrease in fighting, much less kicking under the table, nasty looks, beat-downs. And much less getting into Actual Trouble.
It did not put a complete end to the fighting, I clearly remember a fistfight between Uncle Benna and someone over a game of Monopoly. It's so fuzzy...Who could it have been?...Maybe it was a girl?...No, well, could it maybe have been me?...It was so long ago that it's hard to say who it was. But anyway, it was a doozy. And Uncle Benna started it.
And there was that one time at Christmas dinner when I was nine months pregnant, and Uncle-I-Know-Things refused to stop telling me I was fat. He and his wife, soon-be-Auntie Teff to the incubating babe, hadn't endured a pregnancy yet, and he did not have the valuable information that YOU DO NOT TELL A WOMAN IN HER NINTH MONTH OF PREGNANCY THAT SHE IS FAT, MORON. He was duly warned, a number of times, and I was forced to stand, er, lumber up out of my seat, lean over the table (read: lie in the mashed potatoes), and punch him in the mouth. I'm not proud of this moment, I was simply doing what needed to be done. But do not be concerned for Uncle I-Know-Things; I promise you I hit like a girl. A very little, pansy-assed girl. I believe he actually laughed, but to his credit, he did manage to control himself until I had locked myself in the bathroom to cry.
Not that this has anything to do with my siblings, but now I'm stuck thinking about being knocked, so here's another tale to confuse or something. I had an interesting little hormone issue going on during my first pregnancy that was kindasorta like a game show. We called it Laughing or Crying? And we tried not to play. Here's why: someone inevitably said something, and funny or not, I would laugh. At the verysame instant I would begin laughing, my family would begin taking bets on how long I would laugh before I burst into tears. And nobody ever knew what to expect, especially me. I did not really enjoy this game.
However, my ability to function did improve with each subsequent pregnancy. At least, that's what they tell me.
Too bad nobody will tell me about my camera.
It's funny how our memories of our childhoods differ so greatly, I remember many days of getting blown in for some lesser offenses.
ReplyDeleteas do I.... like that time I burned my hand making mac and cheese. No mercy for the boys.
ReplyDeleteI'm sorry I laughed when you skull punched me. I like to think that your annoyance buttons are in your belly (belly button?) and that pregancy pushed them closer to the surface. They seem to have retracted nicely.
As has my belly button.
ReplyDelete