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Smith Says

Published Tuesday, March 09, 2010 11:53 AM

By Julie R. Smith
Summerville Journal Scene ®

Ten years ago, my brother T-Bob married a Russian woman. Five short years later, two babies joined the crew.

Today the tykes—Alexander and Anastasia, better known as Sasha and Ana--are 6 years old. Their favorite activity is screaming. In Russian.

T-Bob is almost 51. Ask him his Zodiac sign and he’ll say, “Exhaustion.”

He loves his children, but often is puzzled by these short little people who eat ornaments off the Christmas tree. I know this because he told me.

“I had to put chicken wire around the Christmas tree!” he yelled. (So much for his modern, formerly-cool condo.)

Then there’s the daily battle of wills. Once he had the kids in a discount store, and Ana spied a cute, girly wallet. “Daddy, I want that wallet,” she said.

T-Bob stared down at her. “Why? It’s not like you carry a credit card. You don’t need a wallet.”

“It’s pink and I like it,” she said calmly. (Ana is a steely-eyed negotiator.)

“It’s dumb,” Sasha said, and pinched her arm.

“Is not,” she replied, and punched him. Sasha did what he does best, which is yell at the top of his lungs in a foreign tongue.

“Stop hitting! Stop screaming! Ana, the answer is no,” T-Bob said firmly. “You don’t need a pink plastic purse.”

“Fine,” Ana said evenly. “But you have to carry me piggyback for the rest of the day.”

That put the fear of God in a man who’s had back trouble since age 18. Ana got her purse and T-Bob avoided a visit to the chiropractor.

“I figure I saved money in the end,” he said sheepishly, the next time we talked. And talk we do—T-Bob and I are on the phone about twice a week.

As we grope through this uncharted territory called middle age, we’re best friends—which astounds anyone who knew us back when.

As kids, we brawled with fists, boards, and, on one bloody occasion, a rusty metal pizza turner. As Daddy told Mama one day, after he’d pried my teeth from T-Bob’s arm for the umpteenth time: “One of them won’t make it to 18.”

We survived, of course, but were barely on speaking terms for many years. I remember telling a friend, “We have bad chemistry.” What we actually had was a lingering case of the stupids.

Things began improving in our late 20s. We realized we had the same caustic sense of humor, read the same books and saw the same offbeat movies. After my divorce he took me to California on vacation. (“To heal your heart,” he said. “But it’s not broken,” I protested. “Do you ever shut up?” he said.)

Then one day--after we’d telephoned each other four times to share opinions on TV shows, restaurants and what to give Mama for Easter--I realized my brother had become my friend.

The one topic we’ve (almost) always avoided discussing is politics, because T-Bob would burst into flames and melt all the optic cable from here to Fort Lauderdale. So we stay out of that arena.

Time and circumstance change every relationship, and nowadays T-Bob’s wife is his best friend. Then I married my best friend, so it all worked out.

I hope we’ll all be friends forever--if Sasha and Ana don’t land him in the nervous hospital. Payback, my friends, payback.

Julie R. Smith, who perfected the art of sibling rivalry, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.

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