I am lucky – I had an amazing childhood.  Upper-middle-class as it gets, we were raised by two incredible parents, & I was the baby girl that rounded out the all-American family.  We didn’t have a golden retriever, but we did have a yellow lab.  We even named her Ginger, just like every other retriever-owning family of five.

& obviously, we were raised right.  Where Carolina & Jesus are religion, & every sentence ends with “ma’am” or “sir.”

My brothers & I were spaced evenly apart at exactly 3 years & 1 month.  Precise planning by my fertile myrtle mother that I don’t want to think about, thankyouverymuch.   We were enrolled in Scouts, swim team, & were the best of friends (except for the time that Middle kicked Oldest in the mansack & crying escalated for both parties).  I hosted tea parties in my closet in exchange for 6am wake-up calls to play GI Joe’s with Middle.  (I always, always called the Tiger Tank.  It was badass).  We built the most incredible Lego castles, beat Mike Tyson on Punch Out (only once), & prank called Mr. Cash every time my parents left us alone for a date night.

side note:  it was later clarified that even though Oldest was 15 at the time, they knew I was really the one in charge at the tender age of 9.

But when we weren’t building forts or saving the Princess from Dark World, my brothers were systematically plotting to kill me.

Because that’s what brothers do to their little sisters.  Future female siblings of Harrison, I apologize in advance.

Ways My Brothers Tried To Kill Me

• putting me in a trashcan & rolling me down a hill
• pushing me off a 10-foot tree house (Oldest claims it was an accident but regardless, I broke my arm)
• holding my head under water “just to see how long I could hold my breath”
• paying me $1 to eat a dog biscuit
• twirling me in the air.  & throwing me.  into a wall.  (okay, that one was an accident)
• making me stand at the top of the hill as a tackling dummy during the football off-season
• making me hold the football to practice kick-offs (I’m still shocked both index fingers are attached)
• threatening to dangle my pet gerbil, named Chestnut, over the fire while singing “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”  (that one was more mental warfare)
• claiming it would be a “fun” game if I would jump off the diving board & catch a tennis ball mid-air.  then they’d throw the ball so hard it would a) leave a bruise and b) spin me into a belly flop

I know.  A lot of these things could have been prevented had I said “no.”  But they were my big brothers, & I hero-worshiped them.  Thankfully not into my grave.

But I knew they never REALLY wanted me to die.  Because at a swim meet when I was six years old, I dove in.  & panicked.  Floundered.  Swallowed water.  Before I knew it, Oldest had his 12-year-old arms clamped around me, dragging me out of the water.  90 lbs soaking wet, he made it across the pool before any lifeguard, desperate to “save” his baby sister.

& so for the next 7 years, we carried on in that way – barbs of wit, a few picked lock casualties on my diary, & a team of three that were a force to be reckoned with.

When I was 13 years old, all of that changed.

Part 2, coming later this week…