My Duty as a Little Brother

Chapter 3

My parents had three daughters before they were privileged to have me. That means that I grew up with four different moms at once. Each of them had their own parenting style and they all took it upon themselves to try and raise me. I think it probably took all of their efforts to mold me into the person I am today. At the time I wasn’t grateful for the extra restrictions they put on me, so I did my best to be the little brother of a lifetime.

Everyone knows that the stereotype of a little brother is the epitome of annoying. Back to the dictionary, for another definition to make sure we are on the same page. Annoy means to irritate or make angry. I pride myself in the fact that I helped to create the stereotype for all little brothers. I have always taken my jobs seriously, at least most of the time. It all started with my first job and that was to be the little brother to three sisters.

For starters, I wasn’t allowed to ever go into my sister’s room, except when I shared a room with Liz. That didn’t last very long anyway. With that said my sisters might be surprised to find out that I spent a lot of my spare time exploring their rooms while they were out with their friends. Most of this happened while we lived in our house on Eastman Dr. That means I was younger than ten years old. I perfected the art of memorizing how things were so I could always put them back together.

The first lesson that should be learned from this account is the following. If a little boy isn’t allowed to do something, the allure of doing that thing always grows. In lay mans terms for all the sisters out there. If you tell you little brother not to do something 9 times out of 10 he will accomplish the feat. I was no different from the average boy. The excitement of sneaking around against the rules fueled the fire inside of me.

For the sake of time and pages I will condense some examples of how I magnified my calling as a little brother in our family. We had a dog named Maggie, who liked to eat things. On a few occasions I was able to feed my sisters barbies to Maggie. Most of the barbies’ hands and feet were got chewed off by Maggie. I loved to knock on my sister’s doors and run. I know that drove them crazy because they would get fed up and chase me down the hall. The only reason I am alive right now is probably because I am faster than they are.

I have a talent that has made me proud since I can remember. I used to listen to my Dad whistling and new that someday I had to learn how to whistle on my own. Luckily I learned very quickly how to whistle. I’ll admit when I first started I was really annoying, but I mastered the talent quickly. Soon I could whistle whatever tune I wanted. Today you can ask me to whistle just about any hymn and I can do it. I don’t know how it works but I just start whistling and the tune comes out perfectly. I tell you this because my sisters hated my talent. The more they hated it the more I did it. That is how I mastered the art of whistling so soon. I spent many long hours whistling just to get under my sister’s skin.

Emily liked to collect every flavor of chapstick imaginable. She had flavors ranging from Dr. Pepper to the normal mint. When I was younger I thought that if they smelled so good they must taste good also. I specifically remember stealing her collection and hiding behind the chair in the family room, where I proceeded to sample each of the chapsticks. Sadly I found out that smells can be deceiving. Of course I didn’t learn that lesson from the first stick; I had to continue taste testing until I was sick. I don’t remember how Emily reacted, but I am sure she wasn’t happy about having her collection of chapstick eaten.

Whenever my sisters had a party I took it upon myself to spill all their secrets. I also thought that their friends adored me. This was probably due to the fact that I had crushes on most of their friends. With these two attributes combined I ruined many of their little parties. Usually the phrases “MOM, ROBBY IS BOTHERING US! or MOM, GET ROBBY OUT OF HERE!” were worn out by the end of their party. You might ask me if I regret being a pain in the neck, but the answer is no. I loved every minute of it. Except for the many spankings, and hours spent sitting on the chair, which was my worst punishment.

When Megan started dating her future husband Mica, I developed another of my duties. I took it upon myself to be the spy and informer to my parents. I would watch for anything that I could make public. I usually tried to walk as quietly as I could so I could get the dirt on Megan. I remember one time I walked down the stairs at the wrong time. When I rounded the last stair and peaked around the corner I caught Megan and Mica making out. The minute I realized what they were doing I was running up the stairs screaming for mom. About halfway up the stairs I felt a hand wrap around my ankle. It was all over from there. I got dragged down the stairs kicking and screaming by Megan, who decided that she was going to teach me that spying was not nice and also that she didn’t care if I saw her kissing. She held onto my arm while she and Mica proceeded to kiss forcing me to watch. I was young enough that I thought it was disgusting. The minute she let go I was on my way to tell my mom, who apparently didn’t care all that much to my surprise.

When I was a little older I had to get more creative with my duties. Liz was the closest to me in age, so she naturally was the brunt of most of my little brother abilities. When she was a sophomore in high school Jess, my little brother, and I would ride the bus to the high school where we would catch a ride with my sisters home. We were specifically instructed to wait outside next to the car for them. I quickly realized if I went to Liz’s locker she would hurry a lot faster to get out of the school. She also hated that Jess and I were inserting us into her very important social life. Since we got home earlier and she hated it so much, we continued to show up at her locker. I never understood how bothersome it really was until I was a junior in high school and my girlfriend’s little brother would show up at her locker to wait for a ride. It was still worth it.

I know that all three of my sisters have been praying that I have a little boy just like me. Most likely it will happen and Britney will understand who I am a lot better than she does now. Little brothers are a blessing in their sister’s lives. I taught and prepared my sisters for their futures as Mothers, especially Liz. The bottom line is that I learned all of my sisters buttons, and I knew how to push them. I also knew how many times I could push them before getting hurt. However, from the previous chapter you can guess that there were a few times mixed in there, where I pushed the button one to many times.

I have to say one more thing on this subject in my defense before I end this section. I stated earlier that I had four moms, who raised me. My real mom is not the only one, who punished me. I would take one of her punishments any day over my sisters. Hers were usually fair. Since I had four moms I also had four times as many punishments. The punishments usually consisted of hair getting pulled or their finger nails being dug into my arm. It was always an adventure and I learned how to deal with a little bit of pain here and there. Now realize that those were a few selections for an example’s sake. In all reality they are just scraping the tip of the iceberg.

One Last Time Won't Hurt

Chapter 2

This first story is actually two stories that both have taught me a very important lesson in a similar way. However, it took me a few more years to learn this lesson and actually benefit from it. Starting with these stories and throughout the rest of the book you might ask yourself why did Rob have to be taught the same lesson so many times before he actually learned it. I don’t actually have the answer to that question so unless you can read into these stories further than I ever have and answer the question of why it may never get answered.

I have two separate scars, which will stand as reminders throughout the rest of my life. I actually believe the purpose of scars is to remind us of our actions so that we won’t continue to commit the same error time after time. I’ll go ahead and start with my knee. If you get a chance to see my right knee and are able to examine it closely you will find an inch long scar with three dots on either side, that I have had the privilege of carrying for about 18 years now.

When I was growing up I always loved to go to Grandma’s house. The drive always felt like an eternity, but it actually was only 45 minutes long. I always had so much fun at my grandma’s house. The majority of the time at Grandma’s house was spent playing as hard as any little boy could with his cousin. Sam has been by my side for most of my life. We are the same age and we even look a lot alike, but that is a story for another time.

Sam and I would do as much as we could in the short visit’s we had together. It was always an adventure together. We were both blessed with very imaginative minds, which transformed any setting into a paradise. Together we could play for hours without fail. During one of the trips to Grandma’s house Sam and I found our selves playing upstairs in his house. If I remember right we were 5 years old at the time. Uncle Ken, Sam’s dad, had been in the middle of a remodeling project. He was remodeling the upstairs bathroom. It just so happened that adjacent to the bathroom was the ceiling of the living room. Ken’s house is a log cabin, with a living room ceiling that stretches to the roof of the house. There is actually a space between the living room ceiling and the actual roof of the house.

Sam and I were both just small enough that we could comfortably climb to the top of the space holding on to some of the electrical wiring of the house. When we got to the top we would slide down. We were having so much fun that Sam’s older sister Katie became aware of our game. She came out of her room and told us nicely to stop and then gave us a warning that one of us would get hurt if we continued. Of course we didn’t heed her nice warning and continued to play.

As we slid down the ceiling we would end up inside the bathroom, which was under construction. I’m not sure how we avoided getting hurt for so long in the first place. As soon as Katie told us to quit our game we decided to do it one more time. Sam went first and then I quickly followed him laughing all the way. As I slid through the doorway into the bathroom my little five-year-old knee caught onto a nail that had been sticking up in the floor and tore open the inch long wound. I don’t remember the pain but I remember walking with blood dripping from my knee into Katie’s room. Being the nice person that she was, she bandaged me up and called my Mom to take me to the doctor.

Sam got to come with me to the doctor, where I received my stitches. I was so interested in the process that the doctor actually let me place one of the stitches. That is probably the reason why my knee later got infected and the scar is so prominent on my knee now 18 years later. Afterwards my mom took us to get some ice cream to ease some to the stress from our traumatic little experience. We just had to slide one more time, and I got my first lesson in listening to those, who know better.

A few years later I found myself in a similar situation only without Sam at my side. In our old house on Eastman Dr. in Soda Springs we had a door right next to the stove that led out into the one car garage. It happened to be a heavy wooden door that opened out into the garage. There were three or four cement steps that led the way to the cold garage floor. The set of stairs created an opportunity for a little bit of fun on a boring afternoon. I figured out that I could hold onto the doorknob and swing in and out of the garage.

While I was enjoying my new found swing, my Mom was busy cooking at the stove adjacent to the door. She let me have my fun for a couple of swings and then told me to stop swinging or else I would get hurt. This warning now seems very similar to Katie’s warning that could have saved my perfect knee. At the time the words didn’t connect how they do now, so I proceeded to disobey my Mom. As soon as my mom stopped talking I was already swinging one more time. I don’t know if Heavenly Father decided my disobedience needed to be rewarded with pain or if I was just clumsy.

As the door swung into the garage my little hands slipped off the doorknob and I fell. The next thing I remember was my little head hitting the corner of one of those cement stairs. Even though I imagine there might be a dent in the cement from that day, the stair still one the fight. I stood up and already had blood dripping from the back of my head. I don’t think my Mom said I told you so, but she probably should have. I remember my Mom holding a rag on my head and my Dad driving me to the hospital.

When we arrived at the Emergency room they made me lay on my stomach on a table. I remember them putting something on my head and then I remember the sharp pain of the needle administering the anesthetic. The next thing I remember is going home with a brand new set of stitches in the back of my head covered with a big gob of glue for protection, while my head healed. That time I didn’t get to put in any of the stitches, which was probably for the best. I do remember the worst part about it was that my Chip and Dale Rescue Rangers sweat shirt that I got earlier at Disneyland was ruined. That was a sad day in the eyes of a seven year old.

Both of these stories taught me the same lesson as I reflected back on them through the years. I needed to learn to listen to people as they warned me of the dangers of my actions. The only problem was that I didn’t learn that lesson fully at that time. I can’t even say that I have learned it completely to this day after all the experiences I have had. I guess you can say I have a hard head.

Before I Can Even Rememember

Chapter One

History is a funny thing. It can be a valuable thing if handled correctly. In order to handle it correctly we must be able to remember what has happened. Every once in a while events are brought to my attention, which occurred in my short lifetime, that I don’t remember. A few of these events, soon to be recounted are not my own memories. My family has told these stories to me since I can remember because they happened before my actual memories begin. This is one of the reasons I am writing this book. I don’t want to forget all the experiences I have had thus far.

According to eyewitnesses, when I was about two years old I discovered the ability to throw with force and accuracy. One night while we had some visitors in the home I came walking down the hallway holding a harmless golf ball. However, the key detail was that the harmless golf ball was in my two-year-old rocket of an arm. As I entered into the room I let that ball fly. Emily was the poor target of the golf ball. According to her she it hit her square in the forehead with such force that it caused her to pass out from the pain. I imagine that she was exaggerating a little bit, but it makes for a good story.

At around the same point in my life I am told that I was a pretty good aim with a pickle. This may be the reason why I have never been completely fond of eating pickles. As I have been told, we were sitting at the dinner table. There must have been pickles on the table because my dad took a pickle right between the eyes. Once again I don’t remember any of this so I don’t take responsibility for either story. My Mom, however, enrolled me into little league baseball as a result.

Before I could even walk my sister Liz framed me. I don’t actually remember this happening, but we have evidence that proves this happens. If we looked hard enough in our old belongings we would find a tape that proves I was framed. My sisters loved to make tapes when they were younger pretending to be news broadcasters and anything else they imagined. At one time when they were working on their latest tape I happened to be in the kitchen. In my mind I imagine it was before I could walk. In the background you can hear Liz talking to me, and then she starts yelling “Robby has a knife.” It turns out that Liz got in trouble by Mom on the tape for giving me the knife. That wasn’t the end of being framed in my life.

Having heard those stories we are now ready to discuss the best story from before I can remember. When I am a little kid church was torture. I didn’t like to sit in one spot behaving myself for 3 hours at a time. Most of the time my Dad ended up walking off the stand in front of the entire congregation to take me out of the chapel to be punished, but that is another story for a later time. Needless to say a most of the time spent in church was a circus for my Mom to take care of. I was either sprawling on the floor or standing on the bench the majority of the time. One Sunday in particular ended up worse than others. My older sister Emily was laying on the floor under the bench at the time. I was leaning with my arms on the back of the bench in front of ours with my feet resting on the seat of our bench. Emily was directly below me on the bench when the incident happened. All in one swift motion as I’ve been told my feet slipped off the bench and my knee landed on Emily’s face knocking her two front teeth out. For such a traumatic experience I am actually surprised I don’t remember this happening.

The Beginning

Introduction

Throughout my life I have repeatedly had to use the phrase “It was an accident” in my defense. If you look up the word accident in the dictionary you will not find my handsome portrait or even my name, but you will however find a definition that will sum up the contents of this ever-growing book. The definition of accident is as follows: an unfortunate incident that happens unexpectedly and unintentionally, typically resulting in damage or injury. With the definition out in the open, be prepared to laugh, cry, or even get mad at times, while you read the culmination of my life’s story. I am only 23 years old right now so you can imagine there won’t be an end to the stories until the day I die.

The title of this book should not be confused with the idea that my life was an accident. In fact, my life is far from an accident. It just so happens that I have been involved in a fair amount of unexpected and unintentional events. For completeness sake I have decided to include stories that were not accidents as well, so that the readers of this book will get an accurate depiction of who I am and how my life has been.

In order to paint the correct picture and introduce to you who I am, I will start out with a very short overview of my life. I was born August 5, 1985 to Robert L. Geddes and Tamra Sue Wray at 12:06 a.m. in a small town named Soda Springs. I grew up in that town and graduated from high school in 2003. I attended college for one year at Idaho State University (ISU) and then served a Spanish-speaking mission in McAllen, Texas from 2004 to 2006. Following my 2-year mission I returned to my studies at ISU where I met my wife Britney Richardson and was married January 4, 2008. I started pharmacy school in the fall of 2008, where I am currently a student until 2012, but that is getting into the future where the story is not yet written.

One last thing before the real story begins. The purpose of this book is to account for the many stories, which I have not recorded. I want my posterity to decide if they want to learn from my mistakes and rejoice in my successes. Lastly I want to remember who I am and how I got where I am today. It truly has been a ride up to this day, and if I’m not mistaken the ride has really only begun. Now please join with me while I attempt to take you through some of the earliest memories I have as I work my way up to the present. I guess this is your last chance to put the book down, but I imagine you are already hooked so you will continue with me into my past. Good Luck!