My Occupation

When a little kid follows you around and asks stupid questions or immediately blurts out “BOYFRIEND,” when a guy walks through the door, all the adults in the room twitter in laughter and say, “It’s their job,” when you blush and yell at them to be quiet. It’s their job to eat your chapstick when they’re too young to figure out it goes on your lips and not between them. It’s their job to teach you everything must be put up high otherwise they will destroy it with their fingers all covered in goober and boogers. It’s their job to dump nail polish on your bed and it’s your parents’ job to blame you because you left it there… even though you closed the door and it’s your room.

So I guess it’s pretty plain to see that younger siblings have the bigger piece of the cake when they’re younger. And it’s obvious they’re job is pretty free from any responsibility. But being the older sibling isn’t without its perks. You’re bigger, you’re stronger, you’re in charge, and, for a while, those little tykes have this illusion everything you say is true. Who couldn’t have fun with that? At least until they come sobbing down the stairs that they’re afraid the world is coming to an end…

Anything you say can be considered truth so long as you meet the one requirement: keeping a straight face. If you can keep the smile hidden, then what you say is real. The white pieces in your soup aren’t tofu, they’re little mice that crawled into the pot. The cops are coming to get you because you didn’t say please. Your mother is never coming back because she thinks you guys are too much to handle. We can’t follow Dad as he takes a new route because he’s driving off a cliff (that was a good one). And you have to sit still and be patient because the baby sausage factory is coming to get you so we can have dinner tonight.

That’s a little running joke between the siblings. My second youngest sister, Kathea, was probably somewhere around six or seven. She was still cute in other words with those puffy pink cheeks and eyes all full of wonder and imagination. Gullible. If I remember correctly, we were watching Spongebob on television around fall and my father and mother were outside with their rakes and lawn tools making our land look pretty. So, it was just my older sister, Kyllea, Kat in between, and me on the other end, laughing at Spongebob and watching commercials.

It might have started when Kat asked what was for dinner. Or it might have started when she asked where mom and dad were. But somehow the sadistic little devil horns formed on top of the two older heads and we decided to have some fun. The parents were outside after all and they couldn’t hear us to stop us. We turned to face the little naïve and ingenuous child and grinned in a way that any aged human being would have cringed at, our intention clear to everyone but the little kid who didn’t know any better. She looked at us, aware we were about to talk, but completely oblivious to the fact that, in about five minutes, she would be staring at the door in horror every time the wind made it squeak or open and slam shut.

“Get your shoes on, Kat.” Kyllea, in my defense, was the initiator of this memorable torment. Kat turned to her with a smile and asked why. I can only imagine what thoughts were going through her head; ice cream, ‘gashshation’, playing with the hose… “Because you’ve got to go soon.”

“Where?”

“To the baby sausage factory.”

I had to turn to suppress my laughter. At times, my sister’s genius truly surprised me.

“What’s that?”

“A place where they take little babies like you and grind them up into little sausages so that the family back home can eat dinner.”

Her little face turned to me with a look that just sung, “translation please?”

“You want us to eat don’t you?” I said plainly, and she nodded her head, the soft curls in her head bouncing. I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle. “Well then you have to go to the factory and be made into little sausages so we can eat you.”

Oh yes, this was truly horrible. Her face lost its humor and she looked to Kyllea as though she would be the one to save her from danger and then back to me as though she had to compare our faces in order to be able to decide whether we were serious or not. Kyllea had a naturally sober expression, one arm slung over the back of the old blue sofa and her ankle crossed over one leg. I had managed to hide my humor behind a tight smirk and I can only imagine the evil glint my eyes must have had in the light of her shocked appearance.

“But I don’t want to be made into sausages.”

“Oh well, it’s too late. We already called them and they’re coming to pick you up. They’ll be here soon.”

We lapsed back into silence. Mine and Kyllea’s one of amusement and accomplishment for we had just repaid her for ruining our makeup, our sheets, and for all the times we had to clean her up and change her wretched diaper. Oh yes, this was payback. This was a sweet victory over the little lamb between us. This was revenge for all those times she’d ratted on us or made us baby-sit her. This was for all the times she had giggled and called our friends ‘boyfriends’ or sprayed us with water from water guns because our mother had told her to. This was for crying in the middle of the night because of a bad dream or walking into our room and putting her cold hands all over us at eleven o’clock on a Saturday because it was time to get up. And for all those annoying little things that weren’t remembered at the time.

But for Kathea, her silence was one of dread, one of grim anxiety, and her nervous brown eyes would flick to the door every few seconds, Spongebob no longer interesting. At times she would glance to one of us, pleading it seemed for one of us to finally break under her puppy dog gaze and tell her we were just kidding. And we were. Of course. But that was a secret maintained to the very best of our ability. It takes maybe three homeworks to be scribbled on by markers and crayons before that little smacked dog face becomes completely and utterly futile.

The door would shake from the wind outside. Kat would dart her head to it and slowly turn it back to the television. A voice would sound from the driveway. Kat would snap her head to the side and wait until they were quiet before she would slowly peel her attention back to the television. And when the door opened and someone walked in, she was on her feet in seconds, looking as though she were about to break for the cover provided by the table and hide, but it was just her father rubbing his muddy boots on the welcome carpet by the door.

“Daddy! Kyllea and Tianna said the baby sausage factory was coming to get me and make me into sausages so that you would eat me!” she said, her voice full of blame, her little chubby finger pointed straight to us so that there was no confusion as to who the accused were. I was smirking again, on the verge of a huge burst of volcanic laughter, Kyllea no doubt harboring the same reaction. He lifted his head to us, his face blank, regarding us quietly as though deciding what would be the best direction to take towards us being punished (a sacrifice both of us were willing to endure) and exhaled.

“Well, then I guess you better get your shoes on ‘cause I think they’re here.”

And on my mental score sheet, I marked one tally down for the older sisters.