Favorites

Growing up, mom got a real kick out of telling each of us that we were the favorite child. In front of the other two. (Her way of getting back at us for 3 C-sections.) Violence ensued, followed by fake tears, whining and incessant bragging. LOTS of bragging. Rub-your-sister's-nose-in-the-dirt-til-she-bleeds-and-cries bragging. And since then, it's been a constant war for the number one slot. (Example: Christmas '04. Mom subtly mentions a Kosher salt dish she saw at Williams-Sonoma. It was October. On the hush-hush, I spend the next 9 weeks making sure she doesn't find one on her own and then hunt down every possible W-S dish this side of the Mississippi. Why? Because, by god, the one who places it under the Christmas tree is DEFINITELY the favorite.) For a while, we were convinced that the winner would play to geography and the one who moved furthest away would become the fav by default on account of distance. But this week's voice mail from dear old mom has solidified the top spot forever.

Mom (driving the car with Caroline): "Honey, it's mom. I just wanted you to know that Caroline tried to trick me into saying she was the favorite, baby, but I didn't fall for it."
Caroline (from the passenger seat): "Uhhh, I can hear you, you know."
Mom: "Now that she's moved back to town she thinks she can just trick me, but I'm quicker than that."
Caroline: "Mom, what are you trying to do right now?! I can't believe you're saying this in front of me."
Mom: "Ok, I gotta go. She's getting pissy. Love you. You're my favorite."

((Fist pump!!)) I'm still the one. Forever #1. Keep up your game, baby sister. The old lady could use a new watch.

Sincerely,

Sally B.