Bombs Away

Today's post is dedicated to yet another sister on her birthday--the incredible person my kids affectionately know as "Bomb-Bomb".

"You're in charge til I get back"...  As the second of five children, that combination of words was rarely uttered in my direction. First, because my mom hardly ever left the compound--and almost certainly not alone--unless it was for bi-weekly aerobics class, time slots firmly lodged in my dad's memory bank as his time to "tap in" or incur the wrath. And second, because I was somewhat worthless in any sort of management capacity. Maybe it was because my older sister was uber-capable and authoritative--or perhaps my reputation for quirky little mishaps--like breaking every record player I ever touched, forgetting clearly marked key ingredients like flour when making chocolate chip cookies, or getting a pebble or two lodged in my nasal passage by inhaling too deeply from the gravel and acorn pie I made myself in the driveway--culminated in a resume that did not inspire confidence. For my mother to entrust any fraction of her offspring to me (myself included), there must've been something huge going on--like a body in a rolled up carpet to dispose of.

I was maybe 10 or 11 at the time, which would've put my older sister just past the threshold at which a child--any child, no matter how happy the home--seizes every opportunity to be out in the world with someone she's NOT related to. It was probably the first time I was ever asked to assume Ree’s post and it could not have been for longer than 30 minutes total, seeing that it was neither Tuesday nor Thursday night, my mom's designated windows for escape. Because I was (and still tend to be) oblivious, I didn't think much of it at the time. I can't remember if kids #4 and #5 were even there--most likely not, for all the aforementioned reasons to lack confidence in my leadership skills.

But I do remember Liz was there—the #3 to my #2 in the proud lineage of kids on the compound.  She would’ve been 8 or 9 years old, at which point Liz was still passing herself off intermittently as “Mark”, the alter-ego she employed around strange boys so they’d allow her to be involved in pick-up sports activities. It was the late ‘80s, back when the world’s consciousness could only process the two restrictive compartments of “masculine” and “feminine” and any person with girl parts who was more interested in basketball than Barbies was automatically a “tomboy”.  Even the name itself is a compound word composed of two masculine forms, drawing no connections to the fact that this person is a girl, who just happens not to give two sh!ts what other girls seem to like doing. 

And that was Liz.  She wasn’t garnering support for the greater cause of women’s athletics.  And she wasn’t purposely shunning the Barbie for distorting our image of the female form with her huge boobs, structurally impossible waist, and thighs that don’t touch.  She just did not care. She liked sports.  All of them.  And Rambo.  So much that she used to run around shirtless with Daddy’s red bathrobe tie around her head, toting a plastic machine gun.  When she was about 5, she updated her gender-neutral bowl cut to a straight-up boy 'do.  Was it because she wanted to be a boy? As it turns out--no.  She did that to look like our mom, who had cut her hair short after saying to hell with the almost perpetual southern heat and the havoc a decade of being pregnant every two and a half years can wreak on your hair.  So again.  No political statement.  No deep consideration for how her appearance would be received.  She just wanted to emulate the people she loved most and to love the things she was doing, without trying to adhere to anyone else’s idea of who she should be.  So emotionally advanced and self-assured!  My future college-freshman-self would only hope to be so lucky.  Meanwhile, the person I was at 10 or 11 was most definitely terrified to volunteer any information about what I liked or didn’t for fear of mean-girl retribution and wanted to hide under my bed every time I did a bad job cutting my own bangs.  Young Liz, meanwhile, shaved her bangs down to the scalp with Daddy’s clippers and trotted off to school on picture day looking like Frankenstein without care in the world. 

So here we were, Liz and I, with me “in charge”. Over the course of that unprecedented half hour, the situation somehow deteriorated into a stand-off with me on one side of the dining room and Liz on the other.  I was trying to get her to do something she was supposed to do (though I have no recollection what).  She was taunting me with some kind of sing-song to the effect of “I don’t have to listen to you”, so I picked up a big wooden salad spoon and threatened to throw it at her. When she laughed automatically, her lack of faith in my range and aim hit the intended mark of pissing me off—but even I can admit that the thought of me actually hitting her from that distance was pretty ridiculous.  Remember the game “Monkey InThe Middle”? Well--I probably should’ve had an ironic graphic t-shirt made with my picture and those words screen-printed above it, since there was absolutely no chance I could ever make it out of the middle when this monkey landed there.  For the entire length of my youth, I could neither throw, nor catch, nor use any type of club, racket, or bat to connect with any sort of projectile.  It was only through the pity and persistence of my husband that I finally became capable of playing “catch” on the beach with a football of reasonable size.  So when Liz visibly and audibly scoffed at my ability to make good on a promise to clock her with a serving utensil from 20 feet away, I could have easily just backed down right there, joining her in laughing at my own incompetence, chuckling, “As if! Am I right?”

And what were we even fighting about anyhow? Liz and I had absolutely no beef otherwise that I can recall prior to this point—but she was serious as a heart attack in her non-compliance regarding whatever I’d asked her to do.  So, in a fit of frustration, I launched that wooden salad spoon with all the rage of a pre-adolescent completely unpracticed in any form of effective behavior management… and I pegged her squarely in the temple.  From 20 feet away.  With a full dining room table and flower arrangement between us. Like an under-cover ninja spy.  Which would have been awesome…but then she let out a wail like a calf stuck in barbed wire and crumpled into a sobbing heap on the floor. Uh…oops.

All was well that ended well, I guess—and truth be told, I have no recollection of what happened next. Perhaps the major take-away from that exchange was that we both had a little more stubbornness and fury than our characteristically amiable natures would imply.  And the older we got, the more I realized how similar our inner profiles actually were.  For all the strength, coordination, and courage she displayed as a young child, Liz ultimately demonstrated that she wasn’t all that different from me—indecisive and easy-going, but ready to summon the Type A examples in our lives and beat some ass (literally or figuratively) if need be…and despite her early indifference to the world’s opinion, I discovered that she was just as eager to please and keep the peace as I was, when it came to the people she loved most.  We were alike enough to relate in the silent head nod sort of way. But she was always so special--and so different from me in ways I so admired--that my pride in all the things that made her Liz was (and is) infinite.

As I mentioned, Liz played just about every sport growing up—but soccer was her jam.  In high school, she played sweeper; she was one of very few sophomores on the varsity team, held her own playing with friends of mine 2-3 years older than her (who went on to play soccer in college), and played in the All-Star Game as a senior at the state level.  I still can’t promise that I know what the position of “sweeper” entails in the most technical sense—but if I base it on how Liz played it, to be a “sweeper” means to bust the skinny legs out from under whatever pert little ponytail had the ball before Liz made her face one with the grass. I envied that level of skill and “don’t-F-with-me” aura she had on the field.  I was so proud of Liz and went to as many of her games as I could.

Liz and I worked at a grand total of 3 different restaurants and 1 law office together between high school and grad school, and we were roommates as adults for 2 years.  All that time together has allowed me to see how hard she works and how much she’s loved—but how often we fail as the beneficiaries of her kindness in matching the level of unconditional devotion and loyalty she extends to us.  All of those shared experiences have also provided a feast of opportunities for us to be on opposite sides of that proverbial dining room, where I continue to offer my carefully articulated opinions regarding what she’s supposed to do in a given situation.  In that regard, she’s just as stubborn as she always was—but again.  It’s been established that I may not always know one orifice from another when common sense is part of the equation.  Plus, I got my one shot in 25 years ago and have no illusions that lightning can strike twice.  Liz was Liz. And Liz is Liz.  She didn’t walk til she was damn near 2—when she looked around and realized, Oh snap! I best get to steppin’—and then took off walking like, Whatever.  I got this.  She may ride along with you wherever you’re headed and visit you religiously once you get there—but it’s always been her nature to follow the path that fits her footing, no matter how long and treacherous it is.  She finds her own way, in her own time.  So it’s best to just move—before she takes you out at the knees and tosses you aside by your perky ponytail…  

I may never fully understand her position or whatever play she happens to be running, but I’ll still dress out for every game with cleats on the wrong feet and shin guards on my biceps, ready to jump on the field and pretend I know what I’m doing if she ever calls me in to help. Until then, I’ma be in the stands, clapping and pointing as she sweeps the legs out from under the obstacles in her life.  “That’s my sister!”, I’ll say, wooden spoon in one hand, plastic machine gun in the other, and a red bathrobe tie around my head in a show of solidarity for all the awesome that is Liz.