I was only 6 years old, but I can still remember my mother sitting in the brown wingback chair in our living room, announcing to my extended family that she was going to have a baby. This was met with excited cheers, but also shock. My mother was 40 and pregnant…not common back then.
And then he was born. The Golden Boy. The first grandson after NINE girls. In a GREEK family. Born at 10 1/2 pounds with a unibrow that would make Bert from Sesame Street jealous. The christening was a spectacle even for Greek standards, complete with banquet hall and band.
This boy became the bane of my existence. A boy who anytime I would bring a boyfriend home would bring out my 6th-grade picture to humiliate me. A boy who would throw cups of freezing cold water over the curtain while I was showering. A boy who would put soaking wet towels in my bed so that I had to sleep on the floor for two days until my mattress would dry.
I’ve sprinkled some screenshots throughout of our texts to give you some insight into our relationship.
This is not the aforementioned picture. Believe it or not, this is BETTER than that one. (If you click on a previous post titled “Looking at life through rose-colored glasses,” you will see that picture) This feathered-hair stunner is from 5th grade. I recently found it along with the drawing, which is worse than a sideshow carnival caricature. We have come to the conclusion that my cousin, who is an artist for Sony Animation, is the culprit. Let it be known I am taking credit for giving him his start in the business.
Let’s face it, this boy was doing his best while surrounded by a lot of estrogen. My brother was raised by four women, which was probably three women too many. Each one more loud and outgoing than the next, a gaggle of girls who “talk too much and ask too many questions.” (Or so I’ve been told.) Growing up in my family is not for the faint of heart. Or the quiet and introverted. It can be overwhelming.
By the time he was two, my oldest sister Chris was able to drive. (If you have kids, you know that by the time your oldest child can drive, you are READY to pass over that responsibility.) Two years later, Melissa was driving as well. One of our “family stories” is that when either one of them would be alone with Abe, strangers would occasionally think he was their child. This would elicit opposite reactions from the girls. Chris would be annoyed and insulted, Melissa would be thrilled and honored. Which also tells you something about the personalities and temperaments of my sisters.
He and I had a different relationship though. We were too close in age for me to have that maternal instinct toward him. Yet too far apart to have a close sibling relationship in our youth. He was the annoying brother and I was the mean older sister.
It took many years for us to forge a friendship. But now I can honestly say that he is one of my go-to people when I need to talk. Men have a reputation for being terrible listeners, always wanting to “fix things.” But not him. He has figured out the difficult balance between knowing when to talk, when to listen, when to advise, and when to simply commiserate. I always feel better after our conversations.
I will also begrudgingly acknowledge that he is one of the funniest people I know. Which if you know me is hard to admit because I would like to think that I am also one of the funniest people I know. This is particularly challenging for me because he usually won’t give me the satisfaction of a laugh even though I know secretly he thinks I’m hilarious. In this, way he reminds me of my dad. (Well, that and the way he has the exact same body and face as my dad). It once took me three days of trying to get him to laugh until he finally caved.
Yet I will guffaw with abandon at his quick wit, his recapping of stories, his one-liners, and even his dad jokes. Which is why I am the person he will text when something funny happens. When it comes to humor, he and I have a connection that no one else understands.
But even though when I think of him my first thought is FUNNY, his other traits are what make him a wonderful brother. He is kind, which is not a trait that you find easily anymore. He is thoughtful. He is smart AND talented. He is artistic. He has extensive knowledge of music. He can write a play, compose a song, and play any instrument. He loves the Golden Girls and The Beatles. He can, and will, beat you at Scrabble. He makes a mean chili. He has his own cartoon about a mouse that lives in a cup titled “Cupmouse” because why not? In fact, for all intents and purposes, he is the real deal.
Left: An example of his “Dad humor.” Right: His insane knowledge of music.
You might be wondering how he will feel after reading this post. Will he be embarrassed? Proud? Sentimental even? Well, here’s the thing: There is a pretty, pretty, good chance he won’t even see it. I mean, it took me several months to get him to even sign up for my blog. (“I don’t really like to subscribe to things because they just send me stuff all the time. “Umm. But this is not spam, it’s actually ME you dork. I am the one who is doing the sending of the blog so I think you will be ok. Sign up NOW!”)
And let’s say he does read this. Well, there is a VERY good chance that I won’t know it anyway because he won’t comment on it. Unless he argues about the accuracy of something I wrote, I may never know what he thinks. Which can be very frustrating for a person like me. Which might just cause me to call him up and talk too much and ask him too many questions…
Above: In line for a ride but still plugging away.
Above: Inside of the beautiful church Joy of All Who Sorrow. Background, left to right: photographer, witness, bride, groom, and priest. Foreground: Tourist in dad jeans who stumbled in. NOT in our group. 
Above, left: Yogurt with olive oil and salt. Above, right: California lids. 
Above: Road we should have taken in blue. Red arrows point to WAZE-recommended route. 
Never a Dulles Moment 