My brother is my favourite person in the entire world.
We share the same sense of humour, like the same types of movies, and we never end the day on an argument.
Since I’ve moved out of the family home, we’ve established a routine which allows us to speak to each other almost every day, and it’s amazing. We easily keep up to date with each other’s lives, and we genuinely are interested about the day to day activities and news the other has.
I should mention my brother is 6 years younger than I am. I’m 22, so still no going out partying together, but we’ve been through hell and back with each other, and I genuinely feel like nothing can break that bond we share.
I’ve seen my friends with their siblings, heck, I’ve got cousins that get on better with my brother and I than their own siblings, so I know not every family has children that grow up being so continually close with one another, so I feel incredibly lucky that we have such a good relationship with one another.
Not that we haven’t had our ups and downs of course. Our physical fights when we were younger were brutal. He’d practise proper WWE wrestling moves on me and I was a catty little bitch who wouldn’t relent with the torrent of verbal abuse until he cried. But we’re older and much more wise now… of course.
When there are six years between you and your sibling, you remember their milestones clearer than they do.
When he started primary school and I was in Primary 7, it was an amazing opportunity for my bossy little self to show the school off to him as well as feel privileged I had a sibling in the lower school (I know, so tragic).
The year I started uni, he started high school, and it was strangely unsettling seeing my baby brother wear a high school uniform and trotting off to get the bus by himself. I feel I gave him good enough advice to get him through the first year before he started to figure things out for himself! 😬
When I left for my year abroad during the third year of university, I stood at the bus stop saying goodbye to my mother, and hugged my brother, who at the time was shorter than me by at least half a foot.
I came home to Christmas to a nearly full blown man who I had to look up to, and when I hugged him, it was his arms that went around my shoulders, not the other way around.
There’s something so incredibly scary about your younger sibling -especially one so much younger than you- becoming taller than you. It’s like physical proof that they aren’t a child anymore and you can’t mollycoddle them forever.
Last weekend, I met his girlfriend. That’s right. My little munchkin, who I used to watch Peppa Pig and Storymakers with, brought a real girl to meet me, and she was nice. Not that I would expect anything else, in fact, I really didn’t know what to expect, but we spent the whole day together, and I actually had a really good time getting to know her.
It wasn’t until they left that it got to me how grown up he really is now- he doesn’t need his big sister for nearly as many things as he did before. But it doesn’t make him any less my brother. I’m so proud of the wee guy for getting to where he is now, studying for exams, socialising with all his different groups of friends, volunteering at his local gym, he really is becoming his own person, but to me, he is always going to be the wee baba my parents brought home when I was 6 years old. The little baby I refused to see for three days because he was a boy and not the sister I had asked for. The toddler than ran over my toes 54950 times with his walker, and the worst hide and seek player ever.