Sistahood

I'm the red head

When I was growing up my siblings were my best friends. And being a middle child I had it good. My little bro provided escapism and adventure, outdoor games til sunset and someone to lord it over. He possessed a remarkable ability to make me laugh at the silliest things, and still does.

But when I wanted so badly to be grown up my big sister was the one I looked to. She was my staunch defender when schoolyard bullies threatened, my leading light academically and, I guess, a bit rad for the late 70’s. She was the dungaree-wearing, roll-your-own smoking, Ry Cooder-listening, scare the pants off Mum and Dad with a motorbike-riding boyfriend type of big sister and I idolised her. Perhaps for all the wrong reasons given that list of descriptives.

She was the one who sneaked me into my first under-age gig*. She was the one who convinced our parents to let her paint our bedroom teal green, including the ceiling. And she was the one who saw me through those angsty teenage and tough early twenty-something times without judgement. No wonder she was the one I wanted at the delivery of my first born and, 17 years later, at that child's high school graduation.

Today, nothing has changed. When I’m down or stressed I look to her for guidance, a shoulder to cry on, a laugh over a glass or three of wine or a spot of cleaning. Did I mention she’s a domestic goddess?

She was the rock when Mum was diagnosed with cancer, travelling miles weekly to attend appointments, decipher medical and legal jargon, provide companionship and ultimately nurse Mum in the final weeks. For that I owe her an unfathomable debt of gratitude.

Although we are chalk and cheese, in so many ways, the bond we share will never be broken. Happy Birthday Bec!

* it was Mental as Anything at the Manly Vale Hotel