I’m having a bit of a crisis of chronology. My baby brother Ricky, whose cheeks I pinched and whose diapers I changed, is now in his SECOND week of university. My parents dropped him off at his University of Minnesota dorm two weeks ago, and it was a momentous occasion for everyone. For my parents, it was the sendoff of their last-born child across the threshold of adult independence, a slew of heart-wrenching cliches that you shrug off until they hit you. For me, it symbolized just how long I’ve been away from my family and precisely how much growing up I’ve missed with my younger bros, who are respectively four and six years younger than I.

When I moved to Toronto in 2004, C and R were entering grades 9 and 7. I could assert my physical dominance over at least one of them. They knew remarkably little of the “real” world (whatever that means). Now, my brothers are grownass men who tower over me and shock me with their intelligence and general awesomeness a little more each time I see them. How could you not love these faces?



Sure, we may be growing up and not beating the crap out of each other anymore, but I’d like to think we still possess some of the spunk and spirit that made our childhood together so incredibly rowdy. At least, that’s what their amusing Facebook updates lead me to believe…*

*What?! I’m a big sister! Of COURSE I creep their profiles!