Do you remember when you were a child and wished one of your siblings wasn’t a part of your family? You swore that if you weren’t related, you would have nothing to do with them, and when you grew up, you were sure you would not keep in touch. Well, I do. In my case, it was my sister Vivian.
Vivi was the middle child. Our older sister Melinda aka “Matilda Marmalade,” was born with a rare bone disease called Osteogenesis Imperfecta, which caused her to be highly fragile. Her bones were considered “glass-like.” Melinda was seven years older than me and just under two years older than Vivi.
Needless to say, Melinda was the “golden child.” Not that she would ever cause trouble. Even if she did cause trouble, our mother would have never believed her “little angel” could be responsible. On the other hand, Vivi pushed trouble to the limit.
Vivi was an anti-social socialite. She loved everyone who wasn’t blood-related, but she tried her best to have nothing to do with me or Melinda. It seemed like she was born without the need to connect with her family, and Melinda and I were not.
Early off, I realized that this somewhat off-balanced Libra would try her best to make us Pisces crazy! We were even forced to share our bedroom with this kooky individual that wanted nothing to do with us. She would have never had the nerve to mess with Melinda, so of course, I was always her target. She was used to being in charge until I learned to talk back and set some new rules and higher standards.
For years I went to bed in my bottom bunk, expecting one day to wake up to find Vivi on top of me, either cutting off all my hair or using a permanent marker on my face. Of course, I may have instigated a lot of it, but if she wasn’t so irritated by my birth and me simply being around, maybe we both would have been less against each other.
Instead, every chance she got to ruin my day, she did. When she was in high school, she purposely volunteered to be a counselor at my first overnight camping event in elementary school. Even though she could have easily been in a different group, she made arrangements to not only be in my group but be in my cabin! Hurray. She also moved home from college in the middle of my Sweet Sixteen birthday, putting a damper on my celebration even years later.
One time, she had made me so mad that I actually said to her boyfriend, “I think we should see other people,” over the phone after he called to tell her he was running late to pick her up for their date. Unfortunately for her, our voices were so similar on the phone that he couldn’t tell the difference. Even our dad, when he called, would ask, “Who am I talking to, number one, two, or three?”
Too bad for Vivi because she ended up waiting on the front porch for a good, long minute before I finally informed her what I had done. Luckily we never had physical confrontations like many siblings do because of Melinda’s fragile state; my whole family always refrained from using force. But instead, we learned at a young age to be highly vocal when we needed to defend ourselves, each other, and others. And let me tell you, that old saying, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,” is dead wrong because words can be just as painful as a punch in the face – if you know what you’re saying.
Fortunately, Vivi is five years older than me, so we were never in the same school growing up. Not that it mattered, it never stopped her from clouding up my sunshiny days, but at least I had an escape eight hours a day. Unfortunately, we lived in a small town and everyone knew her and liked her for the most part. They constantly compared me to her, and during my entire childhood, I was called “Little Vivi.”
She was known around our town for being a bit of a wild card by high school, which I benefited from. It kept the neighborhood kids, who didn’t appreciate my big mouth, from kicking my scrawny butt out of fear that she would avenge me. Little did they know, she probably would have paid them just to ruffle me up a bit.
Either way, we managed to survive our youth and grow up to be educated, mature, independent women. Even though my daughters still lovingly refer to my sistas as Auntie Shrew (Vivi) and Auntie Shortie (Melinda), we came to terms along the years with the damage our parents had done to us, and we finally learned to appreciate each other’s company. Despite our dysfunctional family, we realized we really do somehow care deeply about one another.
Today, as orphaned adults each over half a century old, we finally share a healthy, happy, and loving relationship without anyone forcing it. Sure we still pick on each other for the same petty, meaningless things that used to push each others’ buttons. But now, we giggle it off.
Over 40 years ago, I would have bet my life that Melinda and I would stay connected no matter how old we got. In contrast, Vivi would probably be just a “holiday visitor” invited to my home to merely make our mother happy. But I was so wrong before. Nowadays, even without Bertha constantly trying to get us all together and to get along, we seem to talk more than ever, without bickering at all!
I guess our mom and dad are up in Heaven laughing in joy as they shout, “I told you so!”
Laugh on. Peace out!
Lisa DeMarco is a columnist for Villages-News.com