It’s always something else being exposed to the family dynamic when it’s not your own. I’m the youngest of four children, none of which have procreated. My brother Kevin is about to be the official/legal father of three, but not via his own blood sweat or tears. That’s another story anyway, I’m getting off topic.

In the last 72 hours I’ve been exposed to two different families, parental units and all. It’s a really bizarre thing for me, not only because of the whole adult orphan thing but also because the relationships are so different from those I remember of my own upbringing. My parents were parents – not folks. I was never my mothers friend and she was never mine. She was my mother. My father, as I’m sure you know, was my hero. He was still my father, a man to be feared.

Being far away from family is usually a good thing, I think. The four of us are vastly different animals, but we share the traits of being painfully independent and incredibly stubborn. We miss each other, sure. The distance is painful when I just want my big sister around for a pep talk over brunch or a shopping excursion where she tells me I look fabulous in everything I put on (and I believe her because she’s my sister) or when one of the boys do something stupid and I can rush to their hospital bedside.

Small doses are more than enough when the four of us come together. The end of June should prove interesting when we collide like bitches with 80’s hair at a roller derby.