kiss her like a sister

I never had this growing up - sharing girly-girl secrets, or a bed when the nights turned scary. Last evening, I found these two all snuggled in Priscilla's top bunk and I was suddenly very enamored with the idea that each of my daughters has a sister. It's not that I felt deprived as a kid because honestly, I was too busy pretending to be Boba Fett, getting socked in the gut with a ball while playing running bases, firing my battery operated machine gun, or re-enacting a Hulk Hogan vs. Rowdy Roddy Piper wrestling match to ponder on the fact that my main influence and role model was an adolescent, braces-wearing, Tron loving, older brother. I was never as handy with a curling iron or mascara wand as my friends with more mature girl siblings, but my youthful obsession with creating stories, poems, and songs, my quirky sense of humor, my varied taste in music, and my motivation for biting off more than I think I can chew when it really matters, comes directly from crazy old Bobby, now a husband and a father and a phenomenal writer/magazine editor. I pray that my kids will also inspire one another to think outside of the heavily marketed secularized box and that later, when the dust from their arguments and squabbles has dispersed, precious memories of their years spent together will remain behind, like panned gold.