It wasn’t fair! I was two years older, but I still had the same bed time as my little sister. I complained every night, stomping and whining.
Finally, my parents succumbed. My bedtime would be 8:31 p.m. Her bedtime would remain 8:30 p.m. I was appeased.
Someone would turn off the lights, and I would lie awake, listening to my dad playing the piano — a lullaby to go to sleep by, he always said. I would remain awake, waiting for the music to end so I could sleep in silence.
Sometimes, my sister would stir slightly in her bed on the other side of the room.
If I knew she was awake, I’d make noises with my spit.
“Stop it!” she would complain. “That’s disgusting!”
Sometimes she’d stomp out of the room. The piano would stop mid-phrase, and I’d hear her voice. I would smile into my pillow.
Some evenings, my parents would go out. I don’t know where our older brothers — our babysitters — would be. But my sister and I would go to our bedroom. She would stand by the window while I jumped from her bed to mine and back again, bouncing and laughing. Then I would stand by the window and she would bounce. When I saw the lights for our car in our court, I’d shout: “They’re coming!” She’d stop mid-bounce, and we’d quickly resume a more innocuous activity, like practicing our headstands on the bed, she against her wall, me against mine.
(One night, ten years later, my mother wondered out loud why those mattresses wore out so quickly. My sister and I glanced at each other and grinned.)
Other nights, we got mad at each other, sometimes for doing nothing worse than existing. While we were not usually physically violent with each other, one night we were. We threw things. I don’t know who threw the winning object, but it met its target. The glass lamp shade, dotted with little blue and pink flowers that matched the wallpaper, fell to the floor and broke. We stood over it in silence, staring at the sharp shards of white on the blue carpet.
Eventually, the “cat fights” got to be too much for my parents. The day my oldest brother left home for college, my parents moved my sister’s furniture, clothes, and knickknacks into his room.
At ages 10 and 12, respectively, my sister and I finally had our own rooms.
That night, I dragged my pillow and blanket into her new room, ready for our sleepover.
We had fun.
To my sister.
(True response to Sunday Scribblings #114: My Nights.)