My son, Eric, is not a big talker. This came as a complete shock to me since I come from a long line of talkers. It seems like all my friends and family members love to talk (often at the same time).

My older son, Paul, began talking early and often and has basically never stopped. So, when my second son came along I just figured he would speak up, but that was not the case. First of all , I could barely hear him over his older brother’s constant demands for my (waning) attention.

While I had hung on Paul’s every word (and before that, everything resembling a word) I had a hard time really listening to poor little Eric. I am sad to say his needs were constantly unheard. While I would have pulled off the road to nurse my crying first-born it was not uncommon to wake my second son from a much-needed nap in order to do school pick-up.

Sorry, buddy.

I have always tried to understand him in the way that can only be described as a combination of love, context and wishful thinking. There was usually no doubt what he wanted. He was a consummate grunter and pointer. Not to mention the growls and screams punctuated by the giggles and belly laughs. He was never shy about asking for what he wanted and he usually got it.

But he would not talk.

At pre-school I begged them. Make him talk. Even if he is pointing at the desired item, he needs to ask for it and say please. This may be where he picked up: “MY TURN!” Followed by a (prompted) “please."

The stuff he came up with was too cute to correct. “See you later, crocodile!” And anything not “now” is “after-morrow."

But now he is four-years old. His talking becomes clearer and clearer. I can often get actual answers to my queries and I can ask him questions that require some thought. I feel like I am just beginning to get to know him now that he is expressing himself with actual words. He may never be as talkative as Paul but he gets his point across.

I may not always like what I hear but at least he is talking. And now I am listening.

By Cathy Burke

Labels: big talker, brothers, Cathy Burke, listening, older son, quiet, younger son

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My son, who is 5, FIVE, cinco, not 4, and “not a baby, Mommy!” just found out that my half-brother, who is 17, SEVENTEEN, definitely not sweet 16, and “almost in college, Mom!” is coming to visit this week.

Let the worship begin!

In my son’s eyes, my younger brother is a walking god. A mystical man whose feet barely touch the floor. Who’s much cooler than Dora’s cousin Diego and even Barry Bonds (whose alleged transgressions we haven’t broken to him yet.) And, of course, he’s much, much better at everything than anyone else (except maybe Daddy, but we can’t really go there).

“Let’s call JJ!!!” my son explodes after breakfast this morning, knowing that my brother should be arriving with my folks late this afternoon.

“Please, Mommy! Please! Please! Please! Please! Please! Can’t we just call him, Mommy??? Please!”

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!” Clearly there’s a 38-pound mosquito in the room I can’t get rid of.

So we call my brother who is down in Menlo getting ready to take a tour of Stanford. This is the conversation that I hear from my end:

“Hello! Hello! Hello! Heeeeello!!! Who’s there? Who is this? Hello! JJ. I want JJ. Hello!”

Silence.

“Hi JJ. So whaddarya doin’?”

Silence. Smile.

“Ok…Good…Golf, tennis, my rockets. Are you going to sleep on the top bunk?”

Smile. Smile.

“Yup. See ya!” (Yes, at age 5 my son can already speak Man-Tongue. One word sentences. Grunts. Yups.)

He hangs up and his face is as excited as my husband’s with a Yankees-Red Sox lead in the bottom of the 9th. Rejoice!

So JJ finally shows up. And I send him off to pick-up my son at Pre-K, just a few blocks away, to surprise him for 3 o’clock pick-up.

Heart attack, apparently. My son flipped out and tore through Pre-K, lunch room, tiny tables, backyard, tomato seedlings, nursery, Susie’s cubby, and directly into my brother’s arms.

“I love you,” he declared.

And every heart within a three-mile radius melted.

Worship.

By Annie B. Yearout

Labels: baseball, big brother, brothers, Pre-K, Stanford

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The big bad wolf’s name is Schizophrenia. I know this because he tried to gobble up my older brother when he was just 14 young years old. Not in one gulp, but in an erratic pattern of gnawing and howling, followed by moments of satiation we could describe as calm (or at least calmer).

That wolf wreaked havoc on our family. When he was around he was just plain scary. And annoying. Being a kid I wanted to blame my brother for becoming a wolf, though he hadn’t and I knew that, too. Sometimes it was hard to tell by his actions whether it was the wolf’s fault or my brother’s or a combination of the two. How could he not take on wolf characteristics with that darn creature trying to invade him?

In 5th grade I made the mistake of confiding in a best friend about the big bad wolf. I felt incredible relief and trust. The next day on the playground while waiting in line for four square another girl called out, “Your brother is RETARDED.” Real loud. I was tempted to correct her and tell her to blame the blasted wolf but what did she know?

After all, how do you describe a big bad wolf trying to gobble up your brother in quiet suburbia? Who would understand? And who could understand? I closed off and told no one about the wolf invading our home. I was also afraid that my peer group would see me as part of some wolf pack rather than as a member of an actual real-life smiling, loving, healthy family.

Just like in the Three Little Pigs story that wolf has tried to “blow our house in.” But somehow, he’s never managed to crumble my parents’ marriage or dismantle our family tree. Thanks to modern medicine and the blessing that it is, medications have taken most of his huffing and puffing away. He’s just a weak wolf now, though he’s still there.

My brother has had that wolf at him for over 30 long years now. I wish it would just finally, finally go away.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: brothers, family, schizophrenia, sisters

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