It is, Brother. It truly is.

This post isn't at all Chicago related, but it's something that made me laugh. And think. And I maybe can find a few places to squeeze in references to Chicago :P

My little (I guess 22 isn't so "little" anymore) sister, who I usually refer to as Brother, and I have a unique relationship. We can talk without talking. We find many of the same things amusing. We share a ton of similarities (though we clearly have our differences) in an almost twin-like way. 

Growing up I kind of morphed into this older sister/third parent role. I'm not quite sure why I evolved into a  kid who responded to the word, "Mom" but I did and as a result I have always felt a lot older than Brother, even though we're only 4 years, 3 months, and 1 day apart. It may be a result of our personalities, or maybe we babied her growing up. But one thing is for certain, no one can make us laugh like each other. 

Brother is girly-er than me and often experiments with various makeup and hair products so when I ran out of curl cream this morning, I knew just who to call. She recommended one and gave me a few tips on how to handle the few strands of hair I have that are refusing to be wavy like the others. Normally, I would encourage such behavior out of my hair. However, I have discovered that in Chicago, the old saying "April showers bring May flowers" holds true and as a result I have refused to straighten my hair for the past three weeks or so because I can't justify doing all that work just to have it frizz up the moment I walk out the door. It's definitely helpful to have someone who shares my DNA and can assist me and relate to my lifelong battle against wild Hungarian Jew-fro hair. 

I then proceeded to tell her how the girls I nanny for bought this product today: 

Specifically in this design:

And this is the part of my story that is probably only funny to us. I said to her, "It reminded me exactly of that dehydrated baton we have." And she knew precisely what I was talking about. We then went back and forth about how visually appealing and enjoyable that dehydrated baton was. 

The dehydrated baton wasn't always so dehydrated. In its prime, the baton was a beauty. It was the same length as a standard baton, but instead of being made of a solid material, its center was filled with water that was home to the most pleasing glitter you'll ever lay eyes on. We literally spent hours (Cumulatively, not consecutively. We weren't that weird.) staring at the baton, turning it over and watching the glitter gather together in clumps as it floated down from one end to the other. I don't remember exactly when this wondrous toy came into our possession, but I know it was mine and it probably appeared earlier than my 10th birthday. I also know I never used the baton for actual baton-ing purposes. It was always only used for gawking and staring. 

On the phone as I referenced the dehydrated baton that was now full of clumpy glitter, Brother just made some half-words and noises that completely spoke to me and made sense. We didn't have to really talk about the baton because we both knew what the baton meant. We both knew how majestic it was. We recently saw the baton when I was packing my things to move here and we sat and looked upon it in awe, just as we did when we were kids. I remember asking her if I should throw it away, since half its water had inexplicably evaporated even though the rubber ends of the baton are impossible to remove. We looked at each other and without speaking, knew that there was no way we could ever willingly part with the baton. It was just...the best. It reminds me of my childhood and makes me happy whenever I think about the way the glitter would fall together, collecting more and more pieces as it descended to the bottom of the baton. 

Apparently Brother feels the same way, because shortly after we hung up, she posted this on my Facebook:

And the caption read, "It's beautiful."

It is, Brother. It truly is.

:)