And then I was 2: aka The year my parents got me a brother instead of a pony.

This begins NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. First instalment is here.


The year I turned two, my parents gave me what they thought would be the sweetest gift.  No, it was not a pink pony with a ribbon. (Bastards!)  It was a baby brother.  The Boy (not to be confused with The Guy) was born two years and a day after I was.  My parents thought this would be fantastic.*  Two kids with birthdays on the same (almost) day! Only one birthday party! Only one time of buying gifts!

First picture of me and my brother. With my grandpa. 

Grandpa looks scared, I look stunned and Grae is adorable. 

Unlike each of us in real life.

Uh huh.  I would like to point out that we also -- have the same birthday, have only one birthday party, and there is only one month money to get two gifts.   I digress.

We were still living in the great white north so, rather than risk having a baby there, my parents dropped me off in North Battleford to stay with Grandma and then travelled to the big hospital in Saskatoon.  I guess that was likely since Mom was having another C Section, but at the time I didn't think of that.  I stayed with Grandma until they brought me my little brother.  I sat on the couch and got to hold him all by myself.  I turned to my mother and asked if they were going to go back to the hospital and get one for them.  This one was mine!

I wouldn't sleep unless Grae was with me.  
Since we both slept better, it was allowed sometimes.  

But not all the time.  Or I might have rolled over and squished him.  Sigh. If only...

They reminded me of this story quite often as I throttled my brother for being a turd.  But that was later in our lives. These first two years of him being present were awesome.  (However, not as good as a pony.)  He was my very own plaything.  And, best part!, he was near indestructible.  I carried him around by the armpits and lugged him from room to room.  I dressed him up and put him in baskets and fed him his bottle.  As he got bigger, he was an all too willing participant in my endless search to find ways to harm him unintentionally.

One afternoon, Grae and I were playing in the back entry to the house.  I don't know what Mom was doing, but the story I'm about to tell you speaks of POOR PARENTAL SUPERVISION.  Grae and I were playing with a plastic tub Mom used to make bread.  It was orange and durable and huge.  (I have it now and it is not huge.)  It fit Grae perfectly.  I convinced him to get into the tub at the top of the basement stairs.  Then I opened the door into the entryway and pushed with all my might.  The door (with my feeble pushing) was enough to catapult Grae and the plastic tub down the stairs to the concrete landing (and wall) below.  Grae landed at the bottom of the stairs and cried "Again!"

Me and The Boy (aka Grae). LOOK AT MY GIANT FEET.

*In fact, they "planned" it this way.  They had company staying over..  Mom told me they had to be "sneaky". Thanks Mom.  And yes, if I have to know that, SO DO YOU.