In case you didn’t know, yesterday was National Sibling Day. The inter-webs were replete with happy photographs of sisters and brothers eagerly displaying familial bliss. Ok, not all of them were Hallmark moments. Some of the pictures were throw backs, polaroids or 35 millimeter photographs, revealing grumpy faces and bad hair from a time before the world had ever heard of Mark Zuckerbeg.
I admit it, I didn’t know it was National Sibling Day. My church calendar duly informed me it was Native American Awareness Sunday. The good people at Cokesbury said nothing about siblings. Here’s where I need to tell you that I’m an only child. There are no siblings in my immediate family tree. I have no brothers and sisters of which I know. However, if you meet a balding theological smartass in Hawaii, my parents and I need to probably sit down and talk.
It was fun to see the pictures of people claiming their siblings and for one day put their rivalries aside. On National Siblings Day, you don’t need to order a DNA test kit. You know from looking at most people’s picture that without a doubt, who is related to whom. Yet, there is something else I noticed. This is especially true in my own home. When National Sibling Day is over sisterly love goes down a one street way and parks in the cul-de-sac called “shut your butt, Jordan!”
Our local school is small so all the kids come home for lunch. Yes, that’s nice. We eat together as a family for lunch. The daily three teen hurricane blows in around 11:15. While we catch up on all that’s happened in the past two hours I learn who has the best version of the day’s events. Jordan, the oldest, tries to be the Cronkite of the bunch. This doesn’t always work. Her younger sister often disagrees with her analysis of grading methods, who spoke to who, and what this speaking to means in the grand sense of the cosmos. If Jordan won’t stop speaking, her sister might ask her to “shut up”. I’ve learned a more emphatic means from Caroline for telling her sister to be quiet: “Shut your butt!”. This has nothing to do with my post meal flatulence. They do tell me the same thing and I’m reasonably informed it does deal with gas. In this instance, it is the impassioned cry of a middle child who wants to be heard. To appease the lunch gods, let us listen.
The day after National Sibling Day, where has all the love gone? It went down the road, turned right into our driveway, and walked into our kitchen. I think it just told our butts to be quiet.