I have a sister. She is 10 years older than I am. When we were younger, we shared a bedroom. I was not a good roommate. I wrote mean things about her on the wallpaper (perfectly chosen to match Marcia Brady's wallpaper) with a permanent marker. I constantly unplugged her 8-track tape player when it was not in use because I thought the little green power light used too much energy. I insisted that my parents buy me an orange beanbag chair, and made the hideous beast of a beanbag the focal point of my side of the room. It was not a good situation, but she lovingly made the best of it.
Or, so I thought. Really, she was just biding her time.
And, then she got even.
In the fall of 1989, I was moving into the dorms at BYU (Helaman Halls). My sister was a mother of two children, living in Salt Lake City while her husband finished medical school at the University of Utah. She brought her little ones down to welcome me, and help me move in. One of my new neighbors in the dorms saw the beautiful, blond haired, big-eyed babies and asked (rather stupidly, I think), "Aw, cute! Who's kids are these?" My sister swiftly and convincingly replied, "They're Natalie's. I am raising them for her while she goes to college."
Fast forward almost 18 years. The older of those beautiful babies is now a BYU student himself, getting ready for his mission. And the younger of the two (here's a shout-out to Courtney, a new reader of the blog, and who in latin is a neptia fabulosus) will be entering the dorms in the fall. On scholarship, none the less.
Little Miss and I are already practicing. "Mommy, I'll miss you while you are in college. Don't do drugs."