Second to One: An Asymmetrical Sibling Rivalry
Sandwiched between being doted upon and being overshadowed, second-and-youngest children strive, in vain, to be like their older counterparts at any cost. Desperate to prove they can be just as good as and/or better than their first-born siblings, second-and-youngest children develop first-child-sized chips on their shoulders, hanging on through adulthood success like that mischievous gremlin creeping on the wing of John Lithgow’s airplane. Just when you’ve made up your mind not to look out the window again, you can’t resist peeling back the shade to see the gremlin, grinning at you with his wonderful wife and three adorable children.
If you haven’t surmised yet, I’m the second-and-youngest child and my older brother is the airplane gremlin. A brilliant, thoughtful, straight-A earning gremlin that went to State in the pole vault, played the saxophone and holds a degree in mechanical engineering. What an asshole.
Some time before the pole vault and the engineering, my brother enjoyed a career as a go kart racing champion. He and my father would dedicate weekends preparing for, traveling to and competing in the various go kart races in the state of Florida. While this sounds like an average father-son bonding activity, it was quite a production as my 8-year-old memory recalls. A big white trailer housed the go kart and assorted racing gear, and an entourage made up of my dad’s friends helped keep the wheels greased (literally.) Rockett Racing had a logo, t-shirts, custom decals and sponsors. My brother was interviewed by a local news anchor for a televised segment about his budding racing career at one point, a sure sign of his future stardom within the ranks of NASCAR. Number 48 would soon be emblazoned on ball caps across America.
Where does this leave the second-and-youngest child? Tagging along, cheering from the sidelines, dreaming of the glory in zipping around a dirt track and maneuvering my way across the finish line to my own entourage of adoring fans, ready to hoist me on their shoulders and award me with a trophy taller than I was at the finish line. I would be the elusive cool girl, unafraid of a little dirt, sweat and the sweet smell of exhaust and victory.
After some not-so-subtle hints of my burning desire to show everyone who was the One True Racing Prodigy in the family, my dad relented. He cleared the race track on a practice day so I could have the loop to myself as I got behind the go kart wheel for the first time. I suited up in my brother’s coveralls — a bright yellow, padded onesie, essentially — and donned my helmet crown. This was it. I could already hear the crowd chanting my name.
About 90 seconds later, as I slowly rounded the curve of the track on my first lap, I stopped, stood up, and got out. I yanked the helmet off and casually walked away from the go kart. My dad came rushing over and asked me what was wrong, and why I had stopped.
“Are you alright?” he asked, sounding alarmed.
“It’s too hot.” I shrugged, and handed him the helmet as I struggled out of the yellow onesie.
And for a brief window of time, I grinned back at the gremlin and said, “This one’s all yours, bro.”
Dedicated to my brother: only an asshole on paper.
This is part of an ongoing series from the publication Recall: True stories of parents doing it right. Read more about it in my intro piece. Or check out another story:
