Just One of the Boys

Perhaps your mother is expecting, or your family is adopting. Whatever it may be, somehow a young boy is coming into your life. Buckle your seatbelt, you're going to hit some turbulence. His arrival will bring upheaval and his presence will forever alter yours; the existence you had before him will fade amidst the mayhem. As someone who has twin brothers who arrived kicking and screaming, I’ll advise you: prepare yourself.

You will learn about boy stuff

As a young girl I was infatuated with dolls, stuffed animals, books, and pink. Lots of pink. Upon my brothers’ arrival my family steadily transitioned into blue and green. Suddenly our house was filled with trucks and trains and basically anything with wheels. Gone were my rocking chair and mermaid posters, now everything was blue and loud. Toys that squeaked and sang and yelled in harmony with babies’ cries.

Sports also became a preferred conversation topic. The backyard is littered with balls of all shapes and sizes. Lacrosse sticks and dirty cleats dustcoat the hallways. The TV is always blasting ESPN. On an average morning you are likely to step on a Lego, trip over golf clubs, and narrowly escape an athletic cup being thrown your way. As you get older it will only get worse. The sound of the punching bag will wake you up in the mornings, and you will find the fridge coated in blue Gatorade powder. You must be updated on the latest NBA trades and tick tok trends. You will play fantasy football and watch, depressed, each week as you lose, your number descending into last place. There will be weeklong sports tournaments, nights on a cot at the Holiday Inn at Saratoga Springs. You will drive hours to be there and sit in fold-up dad chairs on the sidelines of a field in the hundred-degree heat just to watch them lose and mope the whole way home.

They will ultimately be taller than you

My grandparents were always praising me for my height. For a reason still unknown to me, height was equated with success. I was the tallest sibling because I was the oldest. The tallest of seven cousins on genes alone. Towering over the boys a year older than me, I was rewarded, standing center stage during family pictures and being treated with more respect because I could see adults at eye level. One day though, you will wake up and they will surpass you. They will no longer be cute and little but able to pick you up and throw you around. Arms tight around your waist, they will lift you, feet suspended from the ground, just to prove they can. Everyone around you will notice. They will comment on it. You will take it and answer politely, “I don't know when I stopped growing” and watch as your brothers use your head as an armrest. You will never live down your shortness, though for a woman you are above average height.

Along with the height comes strength. I am no longer the arm-wrestling champion or able to carry them around. They are huge. Toned bodies that make my young boys look like men. They will punch you and it will actually hurt, badly. You will be bruised and battered from both love and hatred. It is their way of communicating.

You will be pranked

Our house is practically a Nerf ad. Guns and foam bullets sit in piles in the basement. Stray bullets from wars hide under couches and in bathrooms. You’ll find one lingering in your purse or bed and wonder how it ended up there in your belongings. You will be woken up with a plastic gun in your face and get a bullet bruise squarely in the center of your forehead. Your friends will ask what happened. You’ll scoff and mumble, “What do you think” in response. You will have welts after you play paintball. Finding skin lumps as you wash yellow and pink down the drain. When you go to the ski mountain, converted in summer to a paintball arena, I would advise wearing heavy clothing to protect yourself.

You will also get wet. A lot. Hidden water cups will splatter liquid down your shirt as you open the bedroom door. You will be dunked and thrown into pools fully clothed. Sprayed with a freezing hose. Grabbed by the hair and dunked face first, makeup running down your cheeks. As you reach for a towel, watch out, it is not over yet. Once, twice, three times more and you’ll beg for mercy and dryness. If you are lucky, maybe then they will spare you. Tickles, tackles, and rude name calling is common. You know, you look ugly today. You will get used to it.

You will watch them grow and develop into their own people

For many years my brothers were just the “twins” or the “boys” and then they became Jack and Dillon. Jack started to become interested in fashion. He loves sneakers and has them lined up on a rack in his bedroom. He researches clothing brands that have patchwork jeans and graphic t-shirts from his favorite music artists. He listens to rap music on repeat and can tell you any rapper’s life story that he listens to. Jack comes with me in the car. He likes when I drive. I go to run errands and he’ll follow suit, taking his place on my passenger side. I let him pick the soundtrack, open the windows, and even take him out for Starbucks on our way home. I’m glad that for a moment he still wants to be alone with me, to tell me about his day, his life.

Dillon has a talent for the keyboard. His music wafts up the stairs from the basement and its faint echo can be heard around the house. He is neat and organized with the most perfect handwriting I’ve ever seen. His bed is always made to perfection, the only male in our family who can fold hospital corners. He is the baby of the family, two minutes Jack’s junior and yet he’s taken on the role so well. He hates to be alone; he calls me when my parents go out to make sure I’m on the way home. Every afternoon at three, when the bus pulls up from school, he rings the doorbell a thousand times even though he knows the code to get in. He just wants someone to know he’s there and welcome him home.

They both love to ski and will still race me down the mountain. Though we all know they are faster now.

They will love you unconditionally

It is not always easy to be an older sister. Sometimes you have to be the parent, even when you don’t want to be. They will need you and count on you. You will cook them meals and spend nights babysitting. You will make models of the cell for their science class and help them with fractions, spelling, and vocabulary. You will read their school books to help them write a report. They will come to you when they fight and ask you to fix it.

Sometimes they will invade your space and be rude to you. You will yell at them because without a doubt they annoy you. They’ll embarrass you in front of your friends by outing your very messy room and tendency to be a bit over dramatic when stressed. You’ll argue and be rude and they’ll tell you how awful you are. And yet, it is worth it when you come into their room to check on them, and they ask you to stay a while. Or when they want you to pick them up because you are “cooler” than your parents. Or when they want advice about girls, because they’re “fourteen now and can have girlfriends.” Even the way they come to you when sick or tired and get into the bed beside you just to be near you. Crawling under your covers and holding your hand. Begging to have a sleepover in your room just because. Especially when they admit for the first time in their lives that they will miss you when you go to college. Sitting on the acrylic stools by the kitchen island, Dillon turns to me, “You’ll come home right? On weekends? You’ll still have your phone? Yeah, they can’t take your phone…” Jack perks up his ears and looks at me, too, waiting for my answer.

“Yes boys, I’ll come home to you.” I smile back at them.