TheBanyanTree: Today's Post: About My Brother

[Monique Colver]

My Brother As A Child

Yesterday my sister-in-law asked what her husband, my brother, Jeff, was
like as a baby. Now that she and my brother have their own baby, Aidan,
she's wondering if Aidan is like Jeff, I think. I think that's why she
asked, though our conversation, which was strictly instant messenger, was
then cut short.

I was 13 when Jeff was born, a fine age to take care of a baby, and old
enough to witness his habits. He was a fun baby, active and smart and
perplexing. By perplexing, I mean that as soon as he could talk he was
asking me questions I couldn't answer. It's quite discouraging to have a
baby brother smarter than oneself, but he made up for it by not treating me
like an idiot. Anyway, I didn't realize I was an idiot until he started to
talk, so the first few months were relatively stress-free.

Except for the time I turned my back while he was on the changing table and
he fell to the floor. I was horrified, terrified, and completely aghast. He
was crying. I knew my life would end then, as my stepmother would certainly
kill me once she found out. She wasn't home, fortunately, though my father
and brothers were, in another room, watching television as boys will.
Fortunately he survived his fall from (and here is where I wish I'd named
the changing table Grace so I could say he fell from Grace) the table with
no ill effects, though I maintain that, if any, it helped turn him into the
genius he later became.

I try not to take too much credit, but sometimes I have to accept what is.

Jeff and I spent a lot of time together for the first five years of his
life. I could take him anywhere, and I often did. He would take me places
too, and he was the one member of the family who would tolerate my presence
for long periods of time. He was young and didn't know any better. I took
advantage of that. He was a cheerful baby, happy and energetic, and we'd
amuse ourselves by making the siren sounds on a television show that started
with emergency sirens. We were easily amused. I still am, though perhaps
he's matured since then.

When he was three or so I took him on a trip with me down the stairs, in
which we neglected to use the stairs and instead flew down headfirst. Again,
an opportunity for my stepmother to kill me. (For all the opportunities I
gave her I'm quite lucky to still be alive.) I'd been carrying him, as I
often did, and had tripped on a coat I was also carrying, and there we went,
down the stairs. I could see the floor at the bottom rushing toward us,
after the turn (was there a turn? I think so), and I tried to keep him
upright against me. I was marginally successful, as I hit the floor with my
knees first, before we toppled over, as if in slow motion. And there was
Jeff's mom, staring down at us, and I saw my life flash in front of my eyes.
Sure, we'd survived the fall, but it was mom who really scared me.

Jeff had not a mark on him, and he toddled off happily serene, as if the
foregoing had been just another fine adventure with his big sister. I
ignored the pain in my knees and limped out the front door, assuring Jeff's
mom that everything was fine, after all, Jeff was fine, wasn't he? I
couldn't walk very well for a few weeks, and my knees have never been quite
the same, but who needs teenaged knees anyway?

You may be thinking that Jeff is very lucky to have survived having me as an
older sister, an obstacle course he had to work his way through for the
first five years of his life, and I can't say I disagree. I thought it my
duty to show him that life was not going to be easy on him, just because he
was the youngest favored child.

One summer we had a family vacation in Mexico, and Jeff and I sat out on the
deck and looked at the ocean. He might have been four. There was a rock out
in the water, half exposed, and Jeff asked me how far away it was.

I didn't know. I told him it was so far that we couldn't walk to it. (I told
you I was an idiot. How can anyone walk to a rock out in the ocean?) He
wanted to know how long it would take us to get there. I told him a day. He
wanted to know how long a day was. I told him it was 24 hours, and he wanted
to know how long an hour was. I kept throwing out answers that made no sense
and Jeff, always the rational one, kept asking questions, trying to get to
the bottom of things. "How long," he wanted to know, "will it take us to get
there?" I tried to answer, but each answer required more clarification
because he was young and didn't understand concepts like "far," and by the
end of the day, neither did I.

I went into big sisterhood thinking I had at least a few of life's answers
and discovered I had relatively . . . none. I left home when I was 18 and
moved far away, and when I married at 19, far too young and stupid, I often
upset my husband by crying because I missed "Jeff." Until he found out that
Jeff was my little brother at home he had quite the wrong impression of me
altogether. Once he met Jeff he forgave me for being in love with another
guy. Jeff was the best part of my teen years. He loved me unconditionally,
under circumstances that would cause a rational person to keep their
distance in fear for their own life. He was a fabulous child.

I hope that as Aiden grows older and starts talking he plagues his father
with questions that can't be answered. I think it's only fair. Of course,
his father is far smarter than I am, so it may not be as much of a
challenge, but I bet Aidan can come up with some good questions nonetheless.

Monique
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