Little sister is way too much fun
I have a little sister. She's 16, with a drivers' license and a cellular telephone. She's got red hair and a slight build and she's perky. Though she wasn't my idea at all, she's grown on me with time. She's good to laugh at and tease. Sometimes boys call for her and I yell, "Kelsey, it's a boy. Is it the one you like? Bobby? The one with the freckles?" She barrels down the stairs, slides across the entryway and hits me hard in the kidney before taking the receiver from my fiendish hand.
After she's been on for what I've determined as long enough, I pick up the phone and create fowl noises or hang the receiver over a stereo speaker and play loud music. Sometimes I start talking. "Kelsey, you need to get off the phone, your doctor is supposed to call to tell you if it's contagious." Five minutes later she's found me and she reminds me that she never harassed me when girls called. She never interrupted my calls with belches and screams and loud music.
It is then that I realize why I tease her. I understand why I long for those weekends at home when I can call her cell phone every 15 minutes and make sure her date is paying or her car is filled with gas. I love watching her grow up. And I love to be a part of it, in any form, embarrassing her in front of the opposite sex, or pretending I'm her parole officer, and she's missed her eight o'clock curfew. I love watching her grow up.
She just finished her first high school musical and I went twice. The only reason I didn't go three times is because I had previous plans. I would have gone each night, front row, with binoculars and roses if I could have. I watched from the auditorium as my little red headed sister danced and sang and acted on stage. I bent my neck around the rows in front of me to follow her. I sang along, hoping to send positive vibes down the aisle and past the other performers. When she sang the last song, I swelled with pride. When she bowed, hand in hand with the other little sisters and little brothers my emotions gushed from every pore.
Afterwards I rushed to find her and congratulate her on a fine performance. I said "Good job," a hundred times, each time meaning, "You are the best little sister actress in the world!" At the risk of being embarrassed by her dorky brother, she slid politely out of my grasp and towards a gathering of friends boys, with flowers and congratulations and hugs. She bounced around like a pinball among them. They planned parties and getting something to eat, and exchanged telephone numbers and I watched, happily in the shadow of my little sister.