How Did I Get Here?

The short answer is that my mother cursed them on me.

The longer answer is that I arrived at this state--

"No that doesn't count as a bite. I said three bites, not two. A bite means you fill up your spoon. You like carrots. It's just chicken. It's only parsley. Parsley isn't a vegetable, it's a spice. It's just like salt and pepper, only green. If you finish the whole bowl, you can have another biscuit. Yes, of course, including the corn..."

--the longer answer is that I arrived at this ridiculous bite-counting, vegetable-pushing, guilt-creating state out of complete desperation. Tonight at dinner I felt that I negotiated deals more complex than NAFTA. I swore I would never visit this state. I think I said something about not even visiting this country.

I remember being four and watching my brother do the airplane thing with a bite on a fork. He was the best! It had neat "vrrrrrrrrrrr" and "bddddd" sounds, and loops and turns and dives. And I watched it all with my mouth open and I remember thinking, "There is no way I'm going to keep my mouth open when he tries to put the bite in." And time after time I clamped my mouth shut just as the airplane made its final descent to the landing strip.

And later I was eight and left at the table "until you finish your dinner." I think once I sat there for nine hours. I knew my mom was mad. But I also knew I would stay there for nine months if I had to. And finally I would be sent to my room with no supper (which, of course, was exactly the result I wanted.) And then that same wonderful older sibling would sneak crackers and cheese down to me. I think he thought there was a real possibility of starvation.

I entered parenthood committing to myself that I would not get sucked into this picky-eater nonsense. Well, actually, I was not going to have any picky eaters, but since that didn't work out, I went to plan B. Do not get emotionally involved. I knew it didn't work.

A while back a woman with eight grown children told me that if she were to do dinner-times again with her kids she wouldn't fight it at all. If they wanted five buns and no soup that would be fine with her. Everyone could have dessert regardless of whether they ate anything or not. Mealtime was about family togetherness, not about food. Is she right? By the way, all eight of her children have been quite rebellious and the two I know are obese. Does this give her theory less clout?

Well, as of tonight, I am currently touring this miserable state, but I think I'll take the next plane ride home. I hope it makes neat sounds and loops and dives. And I hope it finds a place to land.

Answer #4--My Brother Is The Best

You rock my world.

You always have. Literally actually. Like the Led Zeppelin barreling out of your Nautilus Avenue room at 7 AM, followed by a groggy, stinky lug that I admired every speck of.

By the time I was in Preschool a week, Mom tells me that every teacher could say, “Now we know who Mark is.” There was no one I’d rather tell about, no one I loved more, no one who did cooler things. Like take me sledding and carry the sleds up every time. Like bounce me to the moon on the trampoline (except for the one time it didn’t end so well.) Like let a little sister hang out with you when you were a teenager. Like come to Boston and set up everything, even a hook for my bike to hang on. Like give me a speeding ride in the grocery cart on the way back to the store. (That trip ended up “rocking” my world too.)

I once said, “What if Mom and Dad had more kids than just us?” You rocked my world when you said, “I wouldn’t have liked them as much as I like you.”

I rocked your world too, sometimes: “STOMPEO. DANANANANA. STOMPEO.” Better than the Rolling Stones ever could have.

I feathered my bangs and had my hair cut like yours in 2nd Grade. The school nurse thought I was a boy. I tried to strut like you, but that didn't work out very well.

You were the man of my life for 22 years. You are still the man of my life, you’ve just become the silver medalist. But I’ve noticed that I’m a silver medalist now too. But I don’t mind. We used to talk every day. Now, not as much. That’s what you get with the silver medal—less fame. But I think the achievement is no less great.

I want my kids to be a sibling just like you. I want them to be gregarious and gentle and generous like you. In fact, I want to be gregarious, gentle, and generous like you. I want them to say to their younger sister who’s had a bad dream, “Garrruuuggghh,” which means, “Come on in, Kiddo.” I want them to sneak food to each other in bed after I’ve sent one of them to her room without supper. I want them to race to a train station to put their little sister on a train to the temple when they’ve overslept, even though the temple might not mean much to them at the time. And I want them to take their younger sibling for brunch at Bendix.

I love you. For 31 years I’ve looked on you as my rock. I’ve always wanted to be just like you. I want to be confident in job interviews like you. Fun with kids like you. Generous in time and money like you. Brave in skiing like you. Unruffled by criticism like you. Cheerful like you. Casual about broken things like you. A great sibling in-law like you. An awesome omelette maker like you. And a million other things like you. I just want to be smaller. And less smelly than you. And listen to better music.

Happy Birthday!