For the millionth time this week, I can’t sleep.
Possibly because, for the millionth time this Spring, we’re all sick.
We found a suspicious little patch of black mold in the bathroom and we’re wondering if it could be responsible for our continuous battle with chest infections since February.
Its all I can do to not grab David’s saw out of the garage and go ape on that spot. I’ll teach it to make my family cough and run fevers for four months.
But instead of an unqualified bathroom remodel of vengeance, I’ve decided to tell you guys a story.
That will make me feel better.
Now what story should I tell…
Oh I know.
I currently live in the town that I was born and raised in. It’s small. It’s quaint. The post office and the library have smelled the same for 30 years. The ice cream parlor that I loved growing up is the same one my girls love now.
When the waitress at the neighborhood diner asks one of the locals if he’ll have “the usual”, you can bet it’s been his order since the Reagan administration …or before.
Growing up I was convinced that my town was the center of the universe. We set the trends. We were on the cutting edge of technology. After all, we had an elevator inside city hall. We were the town to watch for anything up and coming.
It also just so happened, that I was the youngest in my family for a long time. Leading me to believe, as youngest’s do, that I was center of my family’s universe.
Thus making me the extreme center of the center of the universe.
Most would feel overwhelmed by this position.
But I was born for this.
My sister’s job was to keep my position a secret. Sometimes she even went as far as to try to convince me that I held no importance as a world power. She was that good at her job.
She specialized in protection. Constantly coming up with new locations to hide me in case of attack. The closet. The bottom of a sleeping bag while she carefully guarded the opening with her full weight. Once I was even found in the chicken coop, casually gnawing on a melon rind. Our parents warned her that the chicken coop was off limits from now on. But I was on her side…the coop was a brilliant and delicious hide out for an infant. She had gained my respect.
There was no end to the effort she put in to protecting me.
Once, while she was taking a shower and I was using the restroom, one of our fire security alarms was triggered. Without even stopping to turn off the water, or get dressed, she leapt from the shower, grabbed one of our highly trained guard dogs under each arm and ran, stark naked for the barn. Such loyalty. Such sacrifice. I was left in awe sitting there on the toilet, listening to the blaring alarms. She didn’t even hesitate. I was in good hands.
She taught me to do her chores for her. She carefully manicured my hair while my parents were away. The latest styles are of no concern when your focus is security. As a world power I was incognito, no one would suspect the little girl with the bowl cut.
For years I lived under her watchful eye.
My sister has since retired from the role of protection specialist. But then again, I also stepped down from my position as extreme center of the center of the universe. I’ve passed the position on to my youngest. And I’m proud to say she too is in good hands with three older sisters protecting her.