I have one younger sister named Amy. I don’t mean that I have other younger sisters whose names aren’t Amy. I think what I’m trying to say is I have one younger sister and her name is Amy. She is 3 years and 9 months younger than me, which means I was exactly Caroline’s age when she was born. That’s hard for me to believe because Caroline seems so old to me right now, and when I look back at my life, I can’t remember a time that I didn’t have a sister.
Today is my little sister’s 32nd birthday.
32.
How is that possible?
I realize since I will be 36 in August, that obviously she must be turning 32, but in so many ways I still picture her as a 12 year old with enormous hair in a private school uniform yelling at me, “Slow down! You’re driving too fast! I’m going to tell on you as soon as we get home!”
When I was little, one of my favorite games to play was Wizard of Oz. I loved to be Dorothy and I could always count on Amy to be my faithful little Toto. She followed me everywhere I went, so I figured I might as well make the best of it. I’d spread out my mama’s old yellow comforter on the living room floor and travel down the yellow brick road as my little “Toto” crawled behind me barking.
Later on, I discovered the book “Freaky Friday” and loved that the main character called her little brother “Ape Face”. I quickly decided it would be a great name for my friends and me to call my poor sister.
Obviously, I was really nice. A doting big sister.
However, in my defense, Amy did have quite the reputation on our street. She was known to make grown kids come crying to our front door to ask our mom if she would please make Amy give their Big Wheel back because she had commandeered it and wouldn’t let go without a fight. Everyone was a little bit scared of her.
She got me back for making her play Toto and the whole Ape Face thing the summer before I started 5th grade. My mom had gone back to work and my friends and I had some boys ride their bikes over to the house while the babysitter was there, which was strictly forbidden. Amy took blackmail to a whole new level and used this information against me for years. It got her more nights of me scratching her back before she went to sleep than I can even tell y’all. Finally, in about 7th grade, I decided the statute of limitations had surely worn out on this offense and finally told her to go ahead and tell. It was a relief like I have never known.
We could be the best of friends one minute and then turn on each other in an instant. In fact, one fight is so legendary that, to this day, it will bring up a heated discussion.
We call it The Black Sock Debacle of 1988.
It was fall of my senior year of high school and I was truly a pleasure to be around. Like most 17 year olds, I had the world completely figured out and certainly didn’t need anyone telling me how to live my life or breathing air in my presence. Amy was in 8th grade and attended a private Christian school which required her to wear a uniform. However, one day a month was “Free Dress Day”.
Since I attended public school, my wardrobe was significantly larger than Amy’s so she usually borrowed something of mine to wear on Free Dress Day. It seems on this particular Free Dress Day she wanted to borrow my black socks.
Now, we could spend a few hours discussing why I even had black socks, but that’s beside the point. And honestly, I have no explanation other than to say that the late 80’s were an unfortunate time in fashion.
I told her no. The black socks were off limits.
I am telling y’all I was the picture of sweetness and generosity.
Well, lo and behold, she snuck into my room and had the audacity to wear my black socks. I was infuriated. I was enraged. I threw a fit about the thievery of my black socks, and though I am sure my mom thought this whole thing was one of the dumbest incidents she had ever witnessed, she was forced to punish my sister.
Amy got grounded for wearing my black socks.
And I was glad.
So, today on my sister’s 32nd birthday, I would like to publicly acknowledge that perhaps I pushed the sock incident too far. Maybe I should have been a little more forgiving and understanding about how a 13 year old girl, forced to wear a hunter green plaid skirt and matching vest on a daily basis, could have been driven to steal a pair of black socks.
When you think about the unspoken freedoms a pair of black socks can convey, it’s totally understandable.
Little did I know then that the same little sister who borrowed my socks would be the same person who would help me keep my sanity after Caroline was born. At that point, Amy didn’t have children of her own and was more than happy to come over on a daily basis and hold Caroline for hours while I did such novel things as shower and brush my teeth. She’d sit on the couch with me, listen and hold Caroline, while I sat in my purple, spit up stained, chenille robe and cried due to sleeplessness and a potent cocktail of postpartum hormones.
I will be forever grateful for the afternoons she spent on that couch. And watching her hold my baby girl and seeing how much she loved her, just because she was mine, made me love my sister that much more.
Happy Birthday, Amy. I still can’t believe you’re old enough to drive, much less to have a husband and sweet baby girl of your very own.