By the time we arrived at the emergency room Saturday night, Boots had had enough of the “poor babies” and comforting caresses that had been going in Big Guy’s direction – never mind that Big Guy’s wrist was going in two different directions at that point.

It was bad enough that Mom and Dad were barely noticing him – wasn’t he being deprived of Fourth of July fireworks, too, because his clumsy brother had fallen on the playground. Now he was being ignored as well.

When the triage nurse started snapping bands around Big Guy’s good wrist, it was more than Boots could take.

“I want one too!” he bellowed. Luckily, security had a bigger belligerent person to handle at that moment.

He got one, and five minutes later he wanted it off. Then he wanted to climb on the bed with Big Guy. He got that, too, but when it came time for the exam, we had to draw the line and evict Boots.

When we got home with Big Guy a few hours later, Boots of course wanted a cast as well. “I fell. I got an owwie, too.”

It took a full 24 hours for Boots to catch up in the weepstakes – or at least to be able fake it.

That was when Big Guy started spewing his dinner at 1 a.m. Boots stood next to him, replicating the retching as best he could through dramatic gagging and spitting. Because an all-out war would have ensued if one kid got soda and the other didn’t, both enjoyed early-morning 7-Up and Boots was pleased.

Imagine his dismay, though, when Boots woke up at 1 the following morning and puked up his pizza. “I’m sick,” he said, his eyes round and shocked. “I’m really sick.”

And imagine Big Guy’s dismay when he woke up later and found that his brother had jumped ahead of him in the 7-Up line.

“But I’m the one who’s sick,” Big Guy complained.

“So’s he. He was up all last night,” I replied.

“But I’m sick and hurt,” he countered, attempting to wave his cast. “And you’re hurt. And we both get to eat ice cream because we were in the hospital.”

“No one’s eating ice cream now,” I said. “I’m tired of washing sheets.”

For the rest of the day, Big Guy happily subsisted on the crackers and broth his brother ate – apparently nothing says “love” like a sleeve of saltines.

By the end of the day, both were over it and back on the pizza.

But then a cousin slept over and threw up all night. She got soda first this morning.

“Fine,” Big Guy said. “But when I start throwing up again, it’s going to be your fault.”

Copyright 2009 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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