Josh Breskin

I was ten when my parents brought my baby sister home from the hospital. Having been subjected to an older brother and a younger sister already, I wasn't looking forward to the competition. For months, all I'd been hearing about was the new stupid baby that was going to come into the house. Every adult who came to the house was so excited about the coming miracle, while my siblings and I were pretty skeptical that the new addition would be anything but a loud mess that stole all of our parents' time and attention.

Our alliance was quickly divided once Mom called us over to look at the little intruder, though. My other sister Hannah took one look at her and, like the six year old she was, immediately fell in love with the little doll-like thing. David, my brother, grinned his goofy grin and mustered all the eleven year-old smugness he could as the eldest brother of three siblings. When it was my turn to gaze at the face of change, I scowled. Mallory Jean Breskin looked like a drowned rat wrapped up like an egg roll.

For the next few months, I tolerated my baby sister's presence because I had to. I hated the crying, I hated seeing baby toys everywhere, I hated having to sit next to the baby seat in the back seat of the car. Everything about her annoyed the hell out of me. And then the change happened.

Mom was fixing dinner, Dad was working late. David, Hannah and I were in the living room watching TV, and the drooling wonder was in her bassinet near the kitchen so Mom could keep an eye on her (as if a lump could get up to anything). Suddenly, Mallory let out this high pitched, piercing scream. I don't even remember getting off the couch and rushing over to see what was wrong, but before I knew it I had the baby in my arms and was smacking away the bee that had gotten in the house and stung her on her fat little arm. She turned out to be okay (and not allergic, thank god), and everyone was stunned that I'd been the one to rush to her aid. When Mom asked me why I'd done it, I didn't have any other answer than Mallory had sounded an emergency signal and I'd responded. Then Mom gave me one of those "Aww, my sweet boy" looks, hugged me and kissed my cheek (all the mushy crap that embarrasses a ten year-old boy).

After that, I took more of an interest in the lump, and as she grew up, she actually started to idolize me a little bit. We understand each other, and I'm proud to say she's like a little female version of me. Now, the two of us are closer to one another than to either of our other siblings, and we have the best time bugging the shit out of them.

Oh, and one more thing. Mallory Jean Breskin has the best bug collection on the West Coast. She calls it her vendetta against bugdom for her childhood attack. I love that kid.