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Super Sis

By Marjorie Osterhout

My sister is a rock star, or at least she's treated like one. The second she pushes through the front door with nothing but a gym bag and a PlayStation, the jumping and screaming begin. My 5-year-old, Ben, flings himself at her, squeezes her hard, and stays attached for the rest of the weekend.

I never would have predicted stardom for Kathy. She's the youngest of my three sisters, free-spirited and strong-willed, and as a kid it was her job to drive me crazy. I'm the eldest, so it was my job to help take care of her. I spent much of our childhood chasing her with a wet washcloth, putting calamine lotion on her poison ivy, or tracking her down when the streetlights came on. She got back at me by reading my journal, wearing my clothes, and riding my bike without asking.

We never grew out of it. As an adult, Kathy drove a car with a giant spider painted on the hood and wore black leather. I drove a Plymouth and wore polyester. Our relationship seemed hopeless, until Ben came along.

Ben is the only child of the oldest child of an oldest child. Good behavior is in his genes. He remembers his manners and listens to his preschool teacher. He's a model child  -- until Aunt Kathy appears for her monthly visit. Together they find the limits  -- my limits  -- and push them.

The weekend always begins with the Video Game Championship of the World. I have no idea what they play. The no-TV-after-breakfast rule goes out the window, the PlayStation is plugged in, and I'm banished from the room. I hear screams. I hear crashes. I hear evil laughs.

After the championship, they eat dessert before dinner (usually a lot of french fries and perhaps a single pea). A second dessert follows dinner, and after all that excitement, who can sleep? Our bedtime routine disappears with the other abandoned rules, and Ben rockets around the house until he crashes into a coma.

In a strange way, it's okay with me. Isn't this what Saturday night is all about? Overindulgence? Staying up late? Partying till you drop?

Marjorie Osterhout, a freelance writer, lives in Seattle.

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