I’ll be back at some point today with a Stephen King-inspired post on writing/reading, but I’m still waiting for my brain to wake up. Apparently it’s sleeping in today.

I’m still catching up from my littlest sister’s sleepover. She’s 10—8 weeks younger than my tall kid—and they are the best of friends. But they’ve reached that funky age threshhold, so we booted the short kid from his room so she could sleep in there. After a long and explosive debate on nightlights, it was determined the short kid and the tall kid could not share sleeping space, so the short kid went into my bed with the husband, and I bunked on the couch. (Which I actually prefer because it’s quiet, more comfortable than our bed, and I don’t disturb the husband if I work late.) After multiple trips up and down the stairs settling the short kid in, all was quiet. Until midnight, when my sister came down the stairs looking like some creature from a pre-teen horror flick. Red swollen, eyes, wacky hair, pale skin and runny nose. I don’t know if a cold sprang to life or if her allergies embraced the short kid’s room, but she had to be trucked home lest her asthma then flare up in a big way.

Bright and early the next morning, we headed off to Maine for my nephews’ joint birthday party (they turned 1 and 2). I was cranky from driving around in the middle of the night, the short kid was complaining incessantly about his father’s snoring, which doesn’t jive with the husband’s story that he didn’t sleep a wink with the short kid in his bed. The tall kid was, of course, well-rested and ready to go. It was a nice visit, and we all enjoyed ourselves. The husband especially liked perusing the Stacy Kiebler pictorial in my brother-in-law’s magazine, and I enjoyed talking to my sister’s in-laws. Of course I rode home with my hand within grabbing distance of the steering wheel lest the husband nod off while daydreaming about 41″ tall legs.

My other sister turned eighteen a week ago, and it’s still kicking my ass. I’m fifteen years older than she is, so I’ve always been in the “grown-up group” while she was in the “kid group”. So she calls me last Monday and says:

Sis: I’m an adult!

Shan: No, you’re not.

Sis: Yes, I am.

Shan: No, you’re not.

Sis: Yes, I am.

Shan: No. You are not.

I need to start checking for grey hair, and the second I see one I’m off to the salon. Some women grey so gracefully, all serene and wise and dignified.

Not me. I’m going be that woman with the hair dyed jet black, crimson lipstick and with white pancake makeup gathered in my wrinkles and the odor of BenGay overpowering even my not insubstantial stench de’ perfume.

That’s the worst thing about being the oldest. They’re all making me feel old. Clearly it’s time for a sibling swirly or two.