Sisters and Blisters

I was raised in a “Brady Bunch” family (minus Alice, the maid-of-my-childhood-dreams). So, as the story goes, my mom (a very lovely lady…with three kids), married my dad (with two kids of his own), and then they had three more. If you do the math, that makes eight kids. And of the eight, seven of us were girls. For reals. Seven female siblings under one roof. My brother’s personal estrogen nightmare.

Yup, never a lack of Bonne Bell Lip Smackers or Love’s Baby Soft aroma wafting through our bathroom on any given school-day morning. And never a lack of sisters arguing over previously mentioned yummy-smelling (and quite-possibly edible and life sustaining) teen and pre-teen beauty items. Mom always told us that some day we’d be best friends. In my hyper-hormonal, adolescent frenzy, I didn’t believe it.

Oh, sure, some moments we sisters were each other’s besties—dressing up and taking “modeling shots” (no selfies or duck lips for us), Saturday boogie mornings with American Bandstand and Soul Train, or summers gathered around the TV tuned to General Hospital. (Luke? Seriously? I was always Team Scotty.)

But some moments we were more-than eager to take each other down. I remember (and quite possibly participated in) a few cat fights amongst the sisters. Where I inflicted the most sisterly damage (and perhaps missed my true calling in the realm of girl’s softball pitching, or maybe horseshoes) involved my throwing abilities.

On one occasion, I remember being so furious with my sister Shari, that I grabbed a baby bottle (full of milk) and threw the lactose-loaded missile at her sorry-butt little-sister face. (Seriously, she’s gorgeous. Just reliving the moment.) Well, Shari, obviously the smarter and more agile sister, ducked, leaving my loaded missile to fly at will…clear through the huge picture window at the front of our house. Oops.

(This is a  pic of me and Shari with the cute Mexican exchange student. There's a reason he's standing between us!)

 

Another of my throwing/tantrum memories (target: “Shari’s face” again) involved, um…well, a hockey puck. Yeah… And this time it hit her. In the chin. Seriously, what was I thinking? Well, clearly, I wasn’t. It’s amazing my sister still speaks to me (or speaks at all, for that matter). You’ll be happy to know that I’ve replaced throwing solid objects when angry, to screaming at the top of my lungs while driving my car…alone, of course. It helps. I think.

Aaaahhh, my younger years…

Life was complicated.

Life was simple.

And now life gets even. Because now I’m the mother of many daughters (five, to be exact). My two oldest have already passed through the I-want-to-throw-solid-objects-at-your-sorry-butt-face phase, and have actually become the best of friends (as I prophesied years back).

Now, if I could just convince the remaining three.

 

Maybe this poem I composed for my own sisters will help.

 

Of Sisters and Blisters

(Dedicated to the Magnificent Seven)

Sisters, like blisters, cause pain now and then.

With a rub the wrong way, she gets under your skin.

She’s always around. There’s just no place to hide.

And worst of all, Momma and Dad take her side.

She hogs the hot water, and borrows your clothes.

And Saturday night she dates all the cute beaus.

But just when you think that your world’s caving in,

All it takes from that girl is a hug and a grin.

She knows all your faults, but can put them aside,

To help build you up. To fill you with pride.

Now, as for the blister, it’s healed before long.

And in that same spot, the skin becomes strong.

So next time you notice a blister or two,

Just call up your sister, and say, “I love you!”

(Tami and Shari Today--Sister Survivors of The Early Years!!! Love you, Sis...and your chin looks maaahvelous!)

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Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel, The Lost Son, with her son, Preston Norton. She is a survivor of the early years of sisterhood, and in no way condones the throwing of loaded baby milk bottles or hockey pucks for any reason whatsoever. Word.