February 25, 2011 by Heather

I was born on May 7, 1986. 

On July 27, 1988, a little over two years later, my other half was born.  Not literally, obviously.  My mother did not incubate a literal half of me inside of her warm and cozy (and slightly damp) womb for those two years. 

What?  You don’t remember what the womb was like?  Hmm.  Weird.  Guess I have the memory capacity of a genius, go figure.

My mom once told me that when grandma took me into the delivery room to meet my new red-headed baby sister, my first words were (in toddler mumbo-jumbo), “Put her down so I can play with her.”

The obvious next phrase should be, And we’ve been best friends ever since.  However, it didn’t happen right away, or even for a while.  I was a manipulative ill-intentioned child with a love for tattling about things she may or may not have done.  She liked to hit, punch, slap, push, you name it.  A violent one she is, that little sister of mine.  To this very day even.  For a little pipsqueak, she sure can hit hard.  And I’m a wimp.  Bad combo.

I gave her haircuts, showed her how to make Barbie & Ken kiss, played school and taught her about vowels and Jesus, made her say “buck” with an “f” instead of a “b” and then told on her (maybe I should’ve taught mySELF about Jesus, hmm), and lay on my bottom bunk at night and kick her top bunk so hard she’d hit the ceiling.

We had this thing called the Fart Cup that we kept by our bunk bed.  It was this little hot pink tupperware cup that we’d fart and burp into and then seal it up with a washrag and a hair tie.  At various times we’d treat ourselves to the occasional sniff and marvel at the nasty odor our combined bodily expulsions could create.  I wish I were making this up.

One time she laughed so hard that when she got up from sitting in the floor, a little round turd rolled out of her tiny shorts.  For a good minute or so we were almost certain it was a chocolate covered peanut.  It wasn’t until one of us leaned down and smelled it that we realized what it actually was.  We gingerly picked it up with a napkin and put it on Mom’s pillow.  It’s a wonder we made it out of that practical joke alive.  Did I mention this happened when we were teenagers?

We’ve grown up now (a little bit, at least).  We have gone through college together, breakups, heart aches, cheerleading, friends and enemies, getting married (funny how our husbands are kind of similar, ha), our parents’ rocky marriage and divorce, deaths of those born and unborn :(, successes, failures, creative writing with Clyde, and a thousand other things.

While we are mostly similar, we have our differences.  She’s little, I’m…not, exactly.  She is semi-confrontational and says the hard stuff, I am more of a behind the scenes bitch (a.k.a. all talk).  I say bitch, she says witch.  I love to exercise, she doesn’t own sneakers.  I’m sure there are lots more, but honestly, we are the same.  Just ask our husbands.  And our cats.

Let me wrap this up.

She is like air to me.  Neccessary, ever present, natural, refreshing.  Without her, I’d either die or be forever numb from the lack of oxygen to my brain. 

I can be my me-est me around her – I don’t have to hold back.  I know, even when she makes fun of me or thinks I’m being dumb, that she gets me.  I’ve never laughed so hard as when I have with her.  We like to laugh, mainly at ourselves for being ridiculous. 

She’s been my best friend for twenty-two years.  22 years.  Here’s to a hundred more, Hannah Banana.

tibits ♥


3 thoughts on “sisterhood

  1. Hannah J. says:

    I just cried.
    This is so sweet. Even though you basically pointed out my negative qualities, haha. However, it is your brutal honesty that I so appreciate. I didn’t realize that I basically keep you alive. PRESSURE. I love you. I love you. I love you. 😀
    P.S. I really do think you have the memory capacity of a genius. At least compared to mine.

  2. What negative qualities???? I did not! Hahaha.

  3. […] morning, Hannah sent me a text that said “Heather.  Motherhood is hard today.”  I was kind of feeling […]

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