I was an only child for four and a half glorious years.
I didn’t know I was living in the good old days.
Every birthday was mine.
Every Christmas morning revolved around me.
Every family picture had one kid standing in the middle.
Then one day my parents came home with another one.
Everyone told me how lucky I was.
“You’re a big brother now!”
That was supposed to sound exciting.
Instead, it felt like I’d been demoted to supporting actor in my own movie.
Suddenly my responsibilities included fetching bottles, bringing blankets, and standing quietly while every adult in the room stared at someone whose greatest accomplishment was drooling on himself.
Every few minutes someone would smile and say,
“Isn’t he just so cute?”
BLECH.
Looking back, Jason probably wasn’t getting any more attention than I had received.
It just felt that way to a four-and-a-half-year-old who had spent his entire life believing the world revolved around him.
So we did what brothers have done since the beginning of time.
We fought.
Not constantly.
We had plenty of good days.
We rode motorcycles around the farm, fished together, skipped rocks across our farm pond, and wandered the creek banks looking for fur traps that someone else had set. We’d spring them on purpose, hoping whatever animal came along later would get another chance.
Most days we got along just fine.
Until…
…we both wanted the same Tonka truck.
Or the same G.I. Joe.
Or the same stick.
Honestly, it didn’t matter what it was.
Some invisible referee would ring a bell and suddenly Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier were going at it again in the backyard.
Punching.
Wrestling.
Name-calling.
Tattling.
The kind of ridiculous daily warfare parents quietly survive while pretending not to laugh.
I’m honestly surprised Mom and Dad didn’t install stadium seating.
Years later, Laura and I watched our own daughters grow up together.
There were arguments.
There were tears.
There were slammed doors.
But there weren’t many punches.
Jason and I came from a slightly different era.
One afternoon we’d been at each other almost all day.
The teasing turned into shoving.
The shoving turned into yelling.
Eventually we found ourselves inside the hay shed.
Looking back, it was probably the worst place two angry farm boys could have chosen.
The hay shed wasn’t exactly stocked with Nerf toys.
It contained pitchforks.
Sledgehammers.
Corn knives.
Chains.
Rotary hoe blades.
Enough farm equipment to make poor decisions permanent.
Jason was about five years old.
I was around nine.
I don’t think he chose a pitchfork because he wanted a weapon.
It was simply the closest thing within reach.
He picked it up with all the determination a little brother could muster…
…and threw it at me.
Thankfully, I was paying attention.
I ducked.
The pitchfork sailed over my head and buried itself deep into one of the heavy wooden poles holding up the roof.
Silence.
The fight ended instantly.
Neither of us cried.
Neither of us yelled.
We just stood there staring at that pitchfork.
For the first time in our young lives, we both understood something without saying a word.
One of these days…
…one of us could actually get hurt.
Not scraped knees.
Not bloody noses.
Really hurt.
The old pole probably stood there for decades with the scars from Jason’s throw.
Eventually the farm changed hands.
The buildings came down.
Today there isn’t much left except a few trees.
But every once in a while I’ll think about that afternoon, and for just a split second I’m standing in that hay shed again, watching a pitchfork bury itself in a wooden post while two little boys suddenly realize they aren’t invincible.
Brothers have a funny way of growing up.
The little boy you once fought over Tonka trucks eventually becomes the man you’d fight for without thinking twice.
I’m just grateful we figured that out before Jason’s aim improved.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
