the number thirty, all wrapped in gold and carrying a boo bankie

My little brother turns thirty today. Technically he is not my "little" brother. He is 6'3". He is also two years older than me. Of the four of us hell-raising kids, I am the youngest, the only girl and simply not loved as much as my little brother, Jesse. He is the youngest of the three boys. He, whether my mother will admit it or not, is the favorite. My little brother is fondly known as "The Golden Boy." The child that does no wrong, always has cakes baked in his honor, and had his ass wiped by my mother until he went off to college. And even then she would sometimes drive two hours just because he called, yelling, "MOOOOOOOOM, I'M FINISHED!" This is my brother that carried a blue silky blankie in his bat bag. The bag that he put his bats in. To play baseball. He took "boo bankie" with him to play sports. I'm sure that frightened the competition.

We are all two years apart. I can't understand it. Just like my mother can't understand why two children have thrown me into an identity crisis, why I would put deliciously raw fish in my mouth or how on earth I could be depressed . . . WITH ALL I HAVE GOING FOR ME!?? My parents and I are just different in that they were born to breed. I don't say this in a sarcastic, judgmental way. It's simply the truth. Where Brandon and I NEED time to carve our identities, the roles of mother and father are simply not our only priorities in life. My parents were happy to only be parents. They had four of us. Then were disappointed two years after I was born because my mother had her tubes tied after my birth. DISAPPOINTED BECAUSE THEY WANTED MORE. My oldest two brothers seemed to cause trouble together. My memory leads me to believe that they spent a good bit of time testing the boundaries while Jesse and I learned from their mistakes. Or maybe we were just nicer, more cautious children. At any rate, my two oldest brothers were completely out of my league, so I spent a good bit of time playing with the Golden Boy. His imagination was ripe, like mine. We would ride our bikes around the yard, pretending to be cops and robbers, He-Man and She-ra, protecting Grayskull and pulling out our sticks swords and probably hurting ME in the process.

Jesse, being most loved, was also the one who needed glasses first, braces first, broke his arm on a trampoline, and often peed while sleep-walking. I remember lying in bed one night as a teenager. The lights were still on-- I was probably reading Stephen King or whining to my diary (kind of how I whine to my blog now, right?) and Jesse walks into my room. I watch him. Walk in the door. Beside of me. Pull out his thing and start peeing. Into the trashcan beside of my bed. He was asleep. He finished. Walked out of the room. I don't recall if he shook or not.

He also had terrible nose bleeds. My nose has only ever bled once, while pregnant, and it was a pretty scary and awfully self-gratifying thing. Blood rushing out of my nose!! Hey everyone check it out!! I'm bleeding profusely! Out of my face! Awesome! For my little brother, this happened all of the time. Someone, somewhere, sometime, suggested that he read a certain bible verse to stop the bleeding. From then on, a New International Version paperback sat by his bed and was marked to the the clinically tested and approved (not by the FDA, probably by my grandmother) blood-clotting scripture: Ezekiel 16:6 . . .

And when I passed by thee, and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live.

This must have worked on some level, because I remember a blood soaked Bible next to his bed. I mean soaked. Think about it, blood would pour from his nose. He would open this bible. Every time. Just hilarious. Really.

He may not know it, but he is still our sweetheart.

He is the wonderful father of two of the most beautiful children.

He is a husband to his Junior High School sweetheart.

He is a best friend to the same kid that he's been cracking on since elementary school.

He is a teacher.

He is a coach.

He is thirty today.

And he is still breastfeeding.

He is Jess the Mess, our Golden Boy, the star of our family.

He is dear to me.

I love you, brother.

Happy birthday.