Nothing in common

Tuesday night I logged in here to see if I had any comments on my last post.  There were four and I immediately thought “spam” because whenever there’s more than two comments that’s exactly what it is.  Luckily I get to moderate all new comments before they come through to the blog so that nobody else has to read the advertisements for porn and casino sites.

Much to my surprise, three of the four comments were from my brother.  Two were a double post of basically the same comment and the third was a comment on his double post that included a disparaging remark about his ISP or browser or whatever caused the mistake.  Apparently Sean remembered “Free to Be…” as well.  He should, since we went to the same school and had the same spirited music teacher who made us square dance and taught us little gems like “The Tree Song” and another song about Indian names in Michigan that’s probably undergone some politically correct lyric adjustments since we sang it 25 years ago.

(Sean, you’re going to have to help me out with that music teacher’s name.  I can picture her face and how her mouth was open in every single yearbook photo but I can’t remember her name and it’s killing me!)

Anyway, I was very surprised by my brother’s comments and decided not to approve them because any comment with the word “commie” in it really doesn’t jive with the general tone of my writing.  Sometimes I get serious, but I really just like this to be a lighthearted, honest look at family and motherhood.  While Sean does have some fond memories of “Free to Be…” he has since formed the opinion it was created by “man hating feminists” who wanted to “diminish the hibernating manhood of male youth.” His words.

Yesterday he rang me up on chat and asked me who moderates my site.  I told him I do and he responded that I obviously didn’t like what he wrote.  I told him it wasn’t just that I didn’t like it but that I was sharing a fond childhood memory and he was perverting it for me.  What followed was a civilized conversation in which he espoused his political views and I told him he sounded like Archie Bunker and each of us reassured the other that there were no hard feelings.

This was kind of a milestone in our relationship because up until a few years ago we couldn’t stand the sight of one another.  Ever since puberty (his and mine) we’ve been at each other’s throats.  Most of the ’90s were spent hurling insults at each other for no other reason than we were siblings and the human emboodiment of oil and water.  Sometimes it amazes me that we sprung from the same womb, but I see huge differences between my parents and their brothers so finding out my brother and I are not on the same wavelength shouldn’t surprise me.

The comments did surprise me, but what surprised me more was how we were so civilized and adult about the whole thing.  It really wasn’t a big deal to begin with, but I distinctly remember getting so mad at him once that I lit fire to the contents of the trash can in his bedroom.  Now here we are getting along like two people who were once friends who drifted apart instead of siblings who not-so-long ago could have cared less if the other lived or died.  Maybe I’m exaggerating on that one.  After all, I am the drama queen of the family.

People used to tell me I’d get along with him some day.  I never thought I’d see it, but I really am enjoying it.  I hope he is too.