Why We Hate My Brother...

This is my little brother, Rob. He's 19. See this picture? He's in Italy, planting grapes in a vineyard. He's spent the last couple months roaming around France and Italy, spending time in Rome and Milan and Venice. He sucks.

Rob is 13 years younger than me, so I remember way too much about him. I remember all those embarrassing things about him that he doesn't, and that makes me slightly dangerous. He was like a small pet for me when he was little- I would strap him into the back of my Rabbit Convertible and truck him all over the place. I would buy him little outfits and hats and take pictures of him. I still have drawings he made for me in Kindergarten. Before Eric & I got married, he would follow us around & be obnoxious. He has grown up smart and extremely lazy and fantastically charming and disgustingly lucky. Like my other little brother, he is articulate and kind and has put up with a lot of very forcefully given older-sister-type advice. I have good brothers- they only very rarely pick me up & throw me.

A lot of kids his age wouldn't appreciate Europe- he does. We get phone calls from Italy and all he says is "freaking unbelievable." He's in awe of the history and ancient-ness of it all. He's seen & been places I would love to experience- he's a pretty lucky kid. Before he left, we gave him a bag of pennies to toss in Italian fountains and even though he thought it was pretty lame at first, he did it. His girlfriend, Alice (her parents own above vineyard) is lovely and smart. She's getting her master's degree in Anthropology and wants to concentrate on International Adoptions. I am a harsh judge of stupid, vapid girls and she is so very not one.

Anyways, he's coming home tomorrow and I'm looking forward to kicking his jet-setting and jaded butt in true big-sister style. He's six feet tall, but I can take him (I fight dirty.) And then I will force him to cook for me, because apparently he learned how to do that, too. And I will try VERY hard to remember he is not 2 years old, pooping under the coffee table (see? that's one of those little facts I have stored) and possibly a grown-up world-traveling hairy man-type person (who used to poop his pants.)