I don't often tell stories on my siblings because. . . .
They would be pissed.
Let's just say that I am the oldest of 4 kids. Let's just say that we were all close. So close that sometimes we bugged the crap out of each other.
Because I am the oldest, wisest, and the biggest, occasionally I would strike one of my siblings.
I hit like a girl, it can't have hurt that much.
Except for the red hand print that I left on my sisters bare back. Or the apple that hit my brother right between the shoulder blades. Big crybaby.
I remember one day vividly. My family was at Sears. Mom was looking at washer/dryer combos. It was a Saturday. In June.
I was lovingly correcting my younger brother. We'll call him Tim.
Tim had enough of my helpful suggestions and decided to belt me one.
Right in the solar plexus.
As hard as he could.
It still hurts.
Because I had been struck for no good reason, I took the tack that always seemed to work for my siblings.
"MOM! Tim hit me!"
My experience was that once Mom found out someone (usually me) was hitting her precious child (usually him), that the perpetrator (me) would be punished. Naturally I expected similar retribution in this case.
Instead, Mom said:
"Good. It's about time he started standing up for himself".
The reason I share this with you today is because I now have three boys.
Two of the boys are being chased by their brother who is shouting vaugue but convincing threats about pending injury.
I gotta admit, they asked for it.
I would call my mom for sympathy.
But I know better.
Karma's a bitch.