I was talking to one of my friends earlier who just entered the stage of motherhood where her daughter has stepped over the borderline of childhood and into the magical land of bloated-angry-crying-stabby. To comfort her in her hour of fear, I related stories from my youth of growing up with a little sister less than a year younger than me, and how despite an overflow of hormones and crazy, we survived unscathed.
Mostly unscathed.
It was actually really frightening.
I had my first period in Vegas. And guess what? What happens in Vegas didn't stay in effing Vegas!
I didn't even notice at first to be honest. Too busy dealing with a kids room and a fifty dollar bill that was burning a hole in my pocket. What I did notice - and very suddenly - was how incredibly irritating my little sister had become. Her usual clingyness was causing me to be extremely overheated and there were moments when the thought of leaving her on the strip came to my mind more than once.
It was on the ride home that I realised something was wrong. My stomach hurt and my sister sleeping on my shoulder somehow made it worse. So I took one of the stuffed animals I had won in the game room and I smacked her in the face with it.
When I got home and realised what was really going on, I knew I couldn't keep it secret for long. I didn't have money, and depended on Motherly to provide all of my wants and needs. And now I had needs. And she needed to provide. I told her in secret, standing in the kitchen, my tone the softest of whispers ever spoken. She grinned and announced loudly, "My little girl is a woman!" I immediately began my plan to run away from home.
Thankfully I got over the initial shock of the experience. Unfortunately a rough eight or so months later, little sister followed my proper example of entrance into womanhood, and like most little sisters do, she copied my complete lack of sanity for those few days of the month, which, lucky for Motherly . . . found a way to sync up! Because as every good parent knows, if one child has chicken pox, you might as well expose the other kids. Unfortunately, chicken pox only happens once a lifetime instead of once a month, and it usually happens to five year old children who cry and scratch - not twelve year old pre-teens who scream and slam doors.
Kristine did a lot of the screaming and slamming doors. She was vocal about her distress, pain and pure anguish of being a woman. Her temper was lashed out in words. Mine was quietly reserved until the final moment of violence erupted.
When I was thirteen I lay on my bed, my face shoved in a pillow with my Grandmother's heat wrap on my lower back, screaming and crying because Motherly was at work and I couldn't find the pain killers. Little sister had completed her monthly decent into hell a few days prior, and sympathy was never one of our strong suits growing up. She was rearranging the furniture in her room and couldn't move the bed on her own. After an hour of persistence, I relented and agreed to help her. As she pulled on one end of the bed, leaning against the window behind her, I tried to push and angle the frame to change its direction. But one, "You're not doing it right!" from her and all I need was one quick push and the glass behind her broke and she fell through.
Lucky for us we lived in a single story house. Unfortunately there was still a broken window to account for. We decided escape was the best option, and we hid at a friends house across the street until the potential calm fell over the house.
Few outbursts happened after that. A few locked doors. A few screaming matches. And the threat of birth control bills once we turned fourteen and started dating.
But somehow we survived it all.
And only one broken window.
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