When the Rose family first lands in Schitt’s Creek, there’s a scene where David (the brother) tells Alexis (his sister) that he needs the bed further away from the door because, in his words, “If someone were to break in here in the middle of the night wanting to murder us, they would attack this bed first, so I need this bed.” David moves Alexis’ suitcase onto the bed closest to the door. She fights back, saying, “You know what, David? You get murdered first for once.” They argue back and forth for a few minutes, repeating variations of “You get murdered first,” and “No, you get murdered first.”
I’ve BEEN there. But in my family, there are three of us—two brothers, not just one—so the fights were always double-pronged: not only about who had to sleep in the murder bed next to the door, but also, who had to sleep in the dreaded cot.
You’d think that I, as the only girl, would automatically be exempt from the cot, but that was never the case. Once my brothers were old enough to care, they started to argue that since they were taller than me, I should have to sleep in the cot every night. But here’s the thing. If you know anything about brother-sister relationships, you know that this debacle was never about the cot. It was about the appearance of who got the “better” bed. It was about, as most things are when it comes to brothers, winning.
For my brothers and me, that innate sense of competition has always been about the small things, like who gets the cot. Or whose turn it is to do the dishes. Or who has to sit in the middle seat in the car. We have this running bit about scaring each other, as in, hiding in a closet and waiting to jump out at the exact right moment, or placing an old Davy Crockett hat, complete with a raccoon tail, underneath someone’s pillow. Sure, there’s satisfaction in watching your sibling scrub dirty pots, but there’s no sweeter payoff in the world than pulling off a prank and hearing your brother scream.
I don’t know if sisters do this type of shit. I don’t know anything about sisters. But I know about brothers, and I’m a brothergirl to my core.
What’s a brothergirl? It’s a term I made up to describe myself—and girls everywhere just like me (Princess Charlotte! Jennifer Lawrence! My Aunt Pam! My brother’s girlfriend, Lily!)—who don’t have sisters. But a brothergirl is not simply a girl who has brothers, in the same way a girldad isn’t just a guy who has daughters. A brothergirl is a girl who, at times, feels like having brothers is her entire personality.
From there, the definition of a brothergirl fluctuates based on the kind of relationship said girl has with her brother(s). For me, being a brothergirl means always having ESPN on in the background because I find it comforting. It means knowing that the year is divided not into seasons of winter, spring, summer, and fall, but football, basketball, baseball, and golf.
A brothergirl knows she’ll always be the one in charge of presents so she stops asking her brothers for ideas and does it all herself, but makes sure the card has their names on it. A brothergirl is low-key thrilled that she doesn’t have to share her clothes. She consistently drops dating advice tied to her “lifelong insight into the male psyche.” She never understood how Mary-Kate and Ashley could EVEN JOKE about selling their brother for only fifty cents…any self-respecting brothergirl knows that her brother would OBVIOUSLY make her split those profits.
This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about being a brothergirl because my brothers just celebrated their birthdays. (They’re not twins.) (They were born two years and two days apart.)
It just so happens that today is my parents’ anniversary, and what better gift is there than a tribute to how much I love my brothers? (See above: “a brothergirl knows she’ll always be the one in charge of presents…”) As it turns out, there actually is a way better gift, in the form of my brother hosting the NHL Awards tonight on live TV and ending the show with a “Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad! I love you so much!”
He won. I’ll allow it. This time.
Somewhere in the path of raising the three of us, my parents fostered a bond amongst our sibling unit that has turned my brothers into my closest confidantes. I’m not sure if this is the case for all brothergirls, and it’s possible that this dynamic only exists because I didn’t have a sister to turn to growing up, but I really feel that I am who I am because of my relationship with my baby bros.
They’re kind of like my magic mirror. They see things I don’t, and they remind me of things I’ve forgotten. Even though I’m the oldest, and yeah, I *do* have that good older sister energy, it was Jack who brought me ice cream when I broke up with my first boyfriend. It was Matthew who met me for lunch on the day I was laid off. It’s my brothers who downed pastrami and fries with me at Katz’s at 3am on the night of my 30th birthday. It’s my brothers who I know will drop everything for me, just like I will for them—even if there was this one time when I told Matthew that I’d lay down on the street and die for him and he literally said, “Thanks.”
Girls with sisters are always talking about how obsessed they are with having sisters, so here I am to tell you: there’s just something about girls with brothers. It’s the best. (Sometimes also the worst lol, but mostly the best.) If you’re a brothergirl too, I know you get me.
Beautiful! I have tears. You are all a tribute to wonderful parenting, and grandparenting!!!
Oh my god! I never saw the Crockett hat in the shower! I can’t stop laughing! 💕💕💕