Friday, April 14, 2017

For just a minute, tonight, things just got real...

"Do you remember that boy babysitter?" asked my sister via text.  "Nathan, or something?"

Yes.  His name was Bruce.  Bruce Anderson.  I remember him as "Bruise."

Even as a 5 year old girl, picturing shades of purple fading into green, I wondered why ANY parent would name their child Bruise.

He lived next door; and he often babysat us.

Their family was as nice as ours was. Sherry was my age, and despite the fact that her mother referred to me as "your little friend" (my outrage was visceral), she and I were good friends.  My big sister (one year older...almost to the day) joined us also in our important girl business.

Almost every time Bruise babysat, we played "house."  It wasn't weird - my sister, my brother. and I played House all the time.  When Bruise came, it was just, mostly, more of the same.  Bruise was the dad, my (barely) big sister was the mom (which rendered me eternally jealous), and my brother was the baby.  I was the "big sister" which I found to be an utterly stupid role since I was ALREADY the big sister.

And that's what it was.  Four children playing house.  One mom, one dad, a sister, and a baby brother.

Fucked up shit happens every day.

And normal, natural, curious, loving, childish shit happens too.

Bruise, my sister, Me, and my little brother played house.  Often.

Plain and simple.

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