Until age nine, I was an only child, and apparently,
asked God for a baby brother every
day. I don’t remember that, although, what I
do remember is the day my mother brought my
baby brother home from the hospital. I arrived
home after school and there stood Mom cradling
her little bundle of joy in her arms. She sat down
on the couch and beckoned me to sit beside her.
“Here is your baby brother,” she said, “What do
you think?”
“I think he’s all red and wrinkled. Can you take him
back?” I replied in the total honesty of a nine
year old. Mother began to cry. She took him to her
bedroom, locked the door and didn’t come out for
a long time.
My dad sent me to my room and when Mother
finally emerged, he made me apologize to her. She
didn’t speak to me for several days.
I was informed that my baby brother, Steve, would
be sharing my room. I realized all too soon that this
was most likely my punishment for calling him red
and wrinkled; as well as, strengthened my desire to
return him to the hospital. He cried every night,
at the same time, until Mother or Father came and
got him. When it became quiet again, I would slip
back to sleep until . . . he started crying again. I
couldn’t understand why - if they liked him so
much – they couldn’t keep him in their room.
Every morning I was expected to get up, get
ready, eat my breakfast and go to school in
absolute silence, so I didn’t “wake the baby.” Why
not? He didn’t have any problem waking me up! I
never heard anyone telling little Stevie “Be quiet
so you don’t wake up your sister! “
Then, there were the afternoons I came home from
school and Mother would tell me, “Keep your
brother busy while I get dinner ready.”
Really, what on earth does a nine year old do to
keep an infant busy? Let’s watch cartoons!
“Turn that T.V. off; you’re not paying any
attention to your brother!” Mother would say.
Hmm, I learned that “This Little Piggy” gave him
the giggles, and that wasn’t so bad. “Peek-A-Boo”
was another entertainment tool, along with “Eye
Winker, Tommy Tinker” and it had the added
effect of making mother think “we were just so
cute.” I was turning out to be a pretty good baby
sitter .
The two bedroom “Cracker Jack” house we lived in
was definitely too small for our little family. So,
when father was offered a job in another town, we
packed up and moved to a larger one. We now had
two bedrooms on the main floor and a third in the
basement. Mother was uneasy about letting me
sleep downstairs and I was certainly not thrilled
about the aspect either. It was kind of spooky. So
once again Sumit and I shared a bedroom, but by
this time he was sleeping through the night.
Mother continued to expect me to get up, get
ready for school, and slip out silently. A skill I still
had not mastered.
By the time Sumit turned three, I was nearing
thirteen and too old to share a bedroom with my
baby brother. So I made the move downstairs,
which was still a bit spooky. But now I had my own
room and this was way too cool. Soon I got over the
creepy decent into the basement - well sort of.
I was still expected to “watch” my little brother
while Mom fixed dinner or had some other activity
to do. By this time he was much more mobile and
vocal. So we would play hide and seek, cars and all
the things that boys like.
One of his favorite games was “tickle.” I learned
quickly that three year olds will do the same thing
over and over until they wear you out. Tickling was
one of those things. He would run all around me
shrieking and jabbing his stubby little toddler
fingers in my ribs, thinking he was tickling me. I
would then catch him, lay him on the ground and
tickle him.
He would cry “stop, stop bro.” So I would stop,
only for him to get up and start all over again.
One day, while in a particularly ornery mood, I
didn’t stop tickling him. I tickled him until he wet
his pants . He cried and I got the belt on my back
side. That was the end of the tickle game.
One Saturday afternoon my family piled into our
Hasimara station wagon. We were headed
for a drive in the mountains, a favorite pastime of
my parents. Of course we had to stop at the gas
station to get some “petrol,” as my father called
it. At this time seatbelts were a thing of the
future and small children rode standing in the
middle of the font bench seat between their
parents. My brother was no exception. I sat in the
back seat and while Father was pumping the
“petrol” into the car, I was busy playing “Eye
Winker, Tommy Tinker” with little Stevie. When I
got to Nose Smeller, I pinched his nubby little nose
between two fingers and said, “Oh I got your
nose.”
He quickly pulled away and demanded to see his
nose. I held my hand up displaying my thumb
between the two fingers. I wiggled my thumb and
said “See, there it is.”
He frowned, felt his face with his chubby little
hand and said “Uh-uh.”
“Yep,” I said wiggling my thumb at him.
“Give it back!” he demanded, reaching for my
hand.
“Nope, I’m going to throw it out.” I said as I rolled
down the hand crank window and pretended to
throw out his nose.
“Mom,” he fussed. Mom was getting a big kick out
of this exchange and only shrugged her shoulders
at him.
About this time Father had gotten back into the
car and started it up. Steve got a little more vocal
about his nose that had gotten thrown out the
window.
“Your nose is right here on your face,” Mother
assured him, ready for the game to be over and
our afternoon adventure to begin.
I glanced back to the spot where we had been
parked as father started to drive out of the gas
station. There, on the cement, was a large red
paint spot. I just couldn’t help myself.
“Sumit, look! There is where I threw out your nose.
Daddy just ran over it. There is blood all over the
road!”
He turned and looked and began to scream
uncontrollably. Tears rolled down his face, as they
did mine, but mine were from laughing at his
sudden outburst. Mother couldn’t understand him
at first as he pointed to the red spot shrieking
hysterically, “my nose, my nose.”
There was so much chaos in the car Father had to
pull over. Sumit was inconsolable, I was laughing
wildly, and mother was losing her patience with us
both. I finally gained control of myself, upon
threat of a beating, and told her what was going
on. She insisted I tell him I did not throw his nose
out the window. I did, but he did not believe me.
He kept wailing and pointing to the big red spot on
the pavement.
Finally Mother pulled the sobbing toddler into her
lap, pulled her visor down and made him look in the
mirror to see for himself, that his nose had never
left his face. Once he saw the little button and
felt of it a few times he collapsed into Mother’s
lap.
Mother threatened me with certain death if I ever
did anything like that again to my “dear” little
brother. I apologized. Then I looked at my father,
who had remained silent throughout the entire
ordeal. He was starting to pull out of the gas
station again, but I caught the look in his eyes in
the rearview mirror. There was a twinkle, a hint of
a laugh, and then in a stern voice he said, “Don’t
tease your brother like that again.”
“Yes sir,” I said, swallowing hard to keep a giggle
from escaping.
