You can't choose your family

It was my sister’s birthday yesterday and it got me thinking about our time growing up together. She is now married with two children (3 ½ years and 5 weeks) and so quite clearly has left childhood behind – I on the other hand attempt to embrace it and every thing to do with it on a regular basis. I have therefore decided to do something a bit different and dedicate this particular entry to 2 or 3 stories of my childhood with a little sister.

We were both born in Germany in the early 1980s, which has proved a source of difficulty throughout most of my adult life so far. The gentle ribbing about me being German or a Nazi or a Sausage Muncher is pretty easy to laugh off (mainly as it comes from people I actually like!) but trying to get any official document (like a passport or driving licence) or enter certain countries (Hello USA) has proved hilariously difficult so far. Apparently British people AREN’T born in Germany and it doesn’t help that my birth certificate has the reference number 000001 on it – presumably I was first in a new book used by the British Consulate in Frankfurt but that has lead to more than a few raised eyebrows over the years.

The first time I ever met my sister I had a lump the size of an ostrich egg and a plaster across my forehead due to an unfortunate collision between head and coffee table. My Nana had been looking after me at the time and was ironing when the aforementioned collision took place. She therefore arrived at the hospital to present my Mum with an essentially broken child and a pillowcase with a perfect iron-shaped hole burned into it. My folks always claim they only planned to have 2 kids but this comical situation may have been a factor in them stopping after my sister!!

Germany was left behind when I was about 3 and my sister 1 and it was briefly back to Britain for a few years before departing to Brunei – where we would stay for two years before finally settling back in the UK permanently from 1987. My sister doesn’t have many memories of Brunei unfortunately but I thankfully do.

One of my favourites (and actually one of my earliest memories of all) was the first day we arrived at our new house in Brunei. Mum and Dad sent us to have a look at which one of the bedrooms we would like to have. I, being the older (and also slightly faster), managed to get to the door of the bigger room first and flung it open, ready to declare it as mine. Until a cockroach which was comfortably the size of my hand scuttled diagonally from corner to corner across the room and I very chivalrously declared that my little sister could have this room as it was only fair – she had always had the smallest room before. I “think” I have since confessed the actual reasoning to her, but I might not have.

Not long after we returned to England there was a family holiday to the Black Forest in Germany which is not a million miles away from where we both born (both in the same hospital and apparently in the same bed of the maternity ward – albeit 27 months apart). One day Mum and Dad decided to go back to where we had lived and explore the town to see what had changed in the 7-8 years or so since we had left. After driving around and visiting a few places we ended up in the car park of the hospital where we were born for Mum and Dad to point it out to us – not much to see really, they all look alike these hospitals. Still it was an interesting moment for us, being born abroad always meant it was unlikely we’d ever see the place we were actually brought into the world unless we made a concerted effort to go find it – the moment however was kind of ruined when my sister asked why we were spending so long there and my dad replied “We are just waiting for your real parents to turn up and collect you”. I don’t know how long my sister cried and bawled for, but it was long enough to permanently drill the noise into my head.

I have to confess that my life growing up with a baby sister was very pleasurable indeed – I’m very lucky to have one who not only tolerates me but also idolises me. Well, she did have her hair cut in a boy style very like mine and used to follow me around a bit…….. although looking back at it now (a) Mum probably chose her haircut and (b) She was probably following me around for my own safety!

As we’ve got older she has taken all the family responsibility, both having one of her own to provide our folks with grandkids and also managing the dangerous political games that all extended families seem to play almost as well as the old empires used to.

They do say you can’t choose your family but (and here comes the really soppy bit) I actually couldn’t have chosen a better sister to grow up with. So Happy Birthday Lil and thanks for looking after me all these years, keep up the good work though as its not even close to being finished yet! :-D

Till next time,

DT