Confessions of a Little Sister

My first memory of my brother is of him breaking me out of jail. (When you’re old enough to walk, cribs count as prison.) Having dropped the side of the crib to the floor, he would hug me and fall backwards; I tumbled out of the crib on top of him and we went off to eat M&M and Smartie sandwiches and then to pit my Snoopy-on-wheels against his latest wind-up racecar.

It’s always been Moose’s job to look after me. Perhaps shockingly, he has lived up to the responsibility with earnestness and hard work so long and so well I sometimes forget to be scared of life. THAT’s how much I take him for granted.

For example, in the early years I wasn’t allowed to cross the street alone, but that’s where our cousins lived. He’d be over there playing and I would scream and scream for him until he came to get me. (That’s how I first learned to be loud.) He responded well to “Moosie, draw me an angoo” in the time before I could draw my own triangle. I made him rescue me when my car ran out of gas late at night, and he had to get out of bed to do it. In college I once drunkenly picked a fight with a hotel manager, and left Moose to finish it. (His parting shot was “one day, buddy, you’re gonna mow my lawn,” which I find riotously funny even today.) He’s still the person most likely to change the oil in my car.

It can’t be easy to be an older sibling, what with all the learning-to-share required. As a toddler, I wanted whatever Moose had and to do whatever he did. He was, after all, the coolest thing moving – capable of feats of magic like riding a Big Wheels or crossing the road without holding a big person’s hand. I could throw a fit and my mother would make him give me whatever toy of his I coveted.

Such generosity was true punishment – when I was eight I drove his brand new go-cart into the stone wall of our house only days after Christmas. I also toppled his prized possession – his moped – on more than one occasion (once when it wasn’t even moving). I don’t usually drive his cars, but with my track record who could blame him? The first time I visited his fantastic new house, he said he could hardly believe it was his: “I keep expecting Dad to say, ‘OK, give your sister a turn.’” How’s that for deep-seated psychological trauma?

Moose received this sisterly abuse with equanimity. I used to throw everything in my playpen at him – including the mattress. He would calmly roll out of the way, then roll back to continue watching his TV show. Indeed, unflappable tolerance is one of my brother’s defining characteristics. He’s got a live and let live policy some say stems from not giving a shit about others. He is a self-styled “fastidious prick,” which does an admirable job of encompassing in one tidy package his nearly compulsive distaste for messes and his tendency to make smart-ass remarks.

Despite its usefulness, I’m not a fan of the term. To me it just seems like a mean way to describe both his skill in ironing a perfect shirt and the promise that he can make me giggle at the most inappropriate times. More importantly it does no good at all at exposing him as an excellent caretaker (not just of me but of pools, lawns, guests, etc.) and a sucker for family.

I believe my brother would respond to even the most heart-rending personal confession with something along the lines of “OK… Want a beer?” This not because he wasn’t listening but because you’re still the same person, and if he were you in this situation he’d want a beer. It’s his own brand of sympathy, surely, but it works (unless, presumably, you’re telling him you’re an alcoholic).

And although he occasionally ran me over with his bike or threw me on the floor so hard I got a rug burn on my face, I was usually allowed to tag along to whatever fun was being had. When he left me behind to start school I had no idea what to do with myself; eventually I started doing his homework. I followed him from school to school – even to boarding school and college. And everywhere I went people were thrilled to have another Bramhall around, though I was never quite what they expected.

Growing up, we split responsibilities. In theory, I was the smart one and he the funny one. In truth, not only could he sucker his baby sister into giving him half my candy, he went on to graduate from Princeton without breaking a sweat and built an amphibious vehicle while he was at it. He was the outgoing one everyone on campus knew and loved; I was… an above average speller.

I believed my big brother could do anything (except, perhaps, grasp that what you do to one side of an algebraic equation you have to do to the other). At various points in his youth he played football, baseball, lacrosse, and rowed on a crew team. He played the saxophone and designed lights for the theater. At boarding school he was president of his class, editor of the yearbook, and head of the largest organization on campus. In his spare time he could whistle, golf, or wax a car within an inch of its life. He’s the best driver I’ve ever been in a car with. He even sorted out algebra and wound up an engineer.

Despite the ridiculous name he was saddled with before birth, Moose is refreshingly normal – married to his college sweetheart with two delightful children. He’s close to both his family and his wife’s, is still friends with buddies from high school and college. He has the right job, and the right house, and the right tie, and the right hair. I, of course, have the wrong hair. Together we are a John Hughes movie (He’s more Judd Nelson in St. Elmo’s Fire; I’m more Ducky from Pretty in Pink).

He’s intimidatingly successful in just about every way you can measure such things. I haven't the slightest idea how he does it. I suppose I should be jealous if I weren’t so busy cheering for his team.

I was an adult before I realized that not everyone got as lucky as I did in the big brother sweepstakes. In fact, I’m still pretty jazzed for boys who are expecting a little sister in the family. I tell them this: “Your mother or your wife may love you more, but no one will EVER think you’re as cool as your little sister thinks you are – until you have a daughter of your own.”

Happy Birthday, Moose. Sorry about pulling your hair all those times.