My little brother Tim. Ahhhh the joys of being raised with a younger brother. He was so ugly when he was born, all red faced and looking like he did a 50 ft dash in a 30 foot gym. (Memo to me: BUY A SCANNER for some of these older photos.) He brought me a Sesame Street mug when he was born though, so I guess he was pretty cool for that.
I don’t remember too much about him when he was a baby, I mean I turned 5 a mere 22 days after he was born, so I was busy and had far too many other thing to worry about than dealing with a stupid little brother. Until he learned to walk. Actually, in all truthfulness, I don’t even remember him learning how to walk. I do remember him standing in his cowboy boots and training pants playing in the garden though. Yes, that was all he was wearing, and yes, I still find that image particularly hilarious, especially since he would not be caught dead in cowboy boots now.
Then I remember what I like to call his pain in the ass phase. The phase where I was quietly reading in my room and he would come in there to annoy me. There were various forms of annoyance he liked to try on me. One was just opening the door and making faces at me. From this habit, I learned to ignore everything around me while reading. His next tactic was to run into the room, quickly grab *insert favorite material possession of the moment*, and run away. He knew I would chase him, and he knew that was the best way to get my attention. His final act of desperation in order to get my attention was to refuse to leave my room. He would lay down on his stomach, wrap his arms around my footboard, and hang on for dear life, while I stood behind him and yanked his ankles until he finally lost his grip. Then he was dragged into the kitchen, released, and I ran for my room where I would lock the door, and get rid of that pesky little brat!!!!
We fought constantly. I am pretty sure there were days the warriors of Sparta would have been proud of us. I assisted in knocking out his front teeth and I assisted in cracking his head open twice. Fists flew, legs kicked, and yelling ensued until a parent intervened. After a normal brawl, Tim, ALWAYS kicked me in the back when I was walking away. I ALWAYS turned around and beat him up again. Funny how the person he ran to when some bully was picking on him at school was me…
Our teens years were better. I think we actually grew closer out of maturity, and our parents divorce. We still teased each other, but we grew closer than we ever were before. We could tell each other jokes and laugh together. It was certainly a new phase in our lives. And now, now we have those same ole jokes, and same things that make us laugh at each other.
He’s 26 today, and no longer my baby brother. He’s engaged, has a career, and takes life seriously, while still having fun. He’s been to Iraq and he has seen more of the world than I have ever imagined seeing. He’s grown up, but I still see him in those damn cowboy boots and training pants.
Tim the butthead, Mom, and Tim’s fiance’ Kara!