It wasn’t that my older sisters were mean; they just wanted to make me a part of their much cooler, older world.
When you’re the baby of the family and the sibling age gap ranges between 5-7 years, you aren’t given a lot of time to be a baby and you really, really, hate the term baby.
All I wanted was to be left in peace to enjoy the hilarious antics of Sesame Street and maybe learn some life lessons from Mr. Rogers. My tween sisters (although that was yet a term) would not stand for it. They taunted my PBS t.v. time so much, that my mother had to lock me in her bedroom, so I could hang with my Bert and Ernie homies. Cookie Monster in da house!!
Hair bows were out because that would make me a ‘preppy’. My sisters made several attempts to dress me in their black , over-sized Sid Vicious or Depeche Mode t-shirts but I never made it through the front door, much less to the bus stop.
I was just doomed to be the baby. Or was I?
I come from a long line of entrepreneurs. The Owens’ clan knows how to hunt for a bargain and we can sell cookies to a girl scout.
My sisters never counted on the inherited trait of bartering, kicking in so soon. After all, I was just a baby. My little ears were privy to all of their devious adolescent plans. I listened intently and quickly learned when to hold em’ and when to fold em‘.
Going to see a show at an overage, underground club are you? My silence can be bought for the low low price of one Care Bear movie + gummy bears and you, my dear sister, will be attending. What’s that? You will be sneaking out the window (that has yet to be nailed shut) to see your forbidden boyfriend Adam? I hope you like roller coasters and spending time with your adorable little sister!
It’s evil-I know. I think the lesson learned is that nobody puts baby in a corner.
Times have changed and somehow, I’ve turned in to the most liberal one of the bunch. I blame my potty mouth on my sister Laura, but she has three kids now.
The last time I visited her in Texas, we shot some pool and consumed some adult beverages. My former punk sister was pretty much gone after two drinks. We danced to crappy live music like we were 20 and as she giggled hysterically, all she could say was this is “Pretty Bad-A”.
My sister the bad-ass can’t say ass…because she has kids.
She has no idea but ‘Pretty Bad A” is now a part of my vernacular.
Oh, how the tables have turned.