Believe It Or Not, We're Still Friends

I grew up in a tract home in the suburbs of Kansas City. The neighborhood was built at the height of the baby boom, and nearly every house was filled with children. It was the kind of neighborhood where kids played outside until the streetlights came on, where moms met every morning for coffee, and where you were never without someone to play with.

Our next door neighbors had built onto their little three bedroom, one bath home by turning the garage into a family room with a bathroom and adding a large, glassed-in porch in the back. They also had a basement. The youngest of their four kids, Cherie, was my best friend. We played together nearly every day, sometimes at our house, sometimes at hers, but most often outside, climbing trees and swinging on my swing set. We rode bikes, played records and danced and sang, walked to and from school together, and were in love with The Monkees. Life was good.

Then one day, Cherie came over, very excited, to tell me her mom was going to have a baby. This pregnancy was a surprise to everyone involved, but instead of being excited like Cherie was, I was mad. And hurt. My mother knew this, and as soon as Cherie went back home, I burst into tears, crying about the unfairness of Cherie getting a baby brother or sister when I wanted one so badly. My mother told me she knew I would feel that way, but I was still not going to become a big sister ever, and I cried harder.

I got over my initial shock, and when the baby was born, I got to hold him, sitting down and supervised by a hovering adult. But Cherie got to help with the baby, and I was jealous. SO jealous! Cherie's mom brought the baby over to our house one summer day and left him  (and Cherie) with us while she ran a quick errand. Cherie and I knelt on the floor, leaning over the baby, who was lying on the floor on a blanket. We were competing with each other to get him to smile and laugh when Cherie accidentally elbowed me in the eye (she had the sharpest elbows ever). My reaction was to punch her in the arm as hard as I could before running out of the room, my mom's voice following me, chastising me for hitting, and about that time, Cherie's mom came back and collected her and the baby. 

All of my jealousy was released with that punch, and long before the black eye faded, I was no longer mad at Cherie for being lucky enough to be a big sister. 

Summer of 1970; I was 9 years old.

The above picture of me, sporting a crocheted headband and a black eye and holding my hamster, was taken in our back yard, obviously not long after Cherie cracked me with her VERY BONY elbow, and was the inspiration for this story, written for Mama's Losing It Writer's Workshop and using the prompt, "Share a childhood photo of yourself and let it inspire a blog post."