July 18, 1996 3:54 AM
I was born peacefully. I was the center of attention for a quiet nine minutes. Life was good for baby me. I remember thinking “I wonder where my roommate went…”

July 18, 1996 4:03 AM
All hell broke loose as a crying; screaming; LOUD Emily was hatched. Emily was a dinosaur egg at 4 pounds, 11 ounces.

Flash forward two years.
The creature and I shared a crib as babies. We used a play a game called “Smear the Peer.” In this game, we would take off our caked diapers, compare answers, and chuck them across the room. This would leave a beautiful mural for our mom to clean up; she knew we were artists from the start.

Jump one year.
My mom wanted a carwash, so Emily and I did what all babies do at the carwash. As the car rolled onto the tracks, we unclipped out seat belts, opened the automatic doors, and got out of the car.
You didn’t do this? Your loss.
My mom began to panic as the shower of soap and water rained down on her car. At least she got the express watch, knowing that Emily had soiled herself. After the car got out of the wash, she found us playing by the gas station, waiting for her.
Later that year, Emily and I managed to drive that same minivan five feet into a ditch while my mom left it running on our driveway. You know Emily was steering, because well, it was in the ditch.

Over the next eight years, Emily passed through a long phase known only as the Tomboy Phase. I, being a skinny, tall kid even through those years, didn’t play sports that much. Emily, on the other hand, was playing baseball because softball was too slow, soccer with me, and basketball with my dad as the coach. Not only did she play most of these sports at the same level or better than the guys, she had the same haircut. Cut short, rounded, and bowled, Emily was a dude. I used to joke that I had another brother, named Emilio. Even though Emily was a guy in her actions, she was a little girl at heart.
Towards the end of her Tomboy years, our parents decided to get the family a dog. Not just a dog, a Weimaraner. We named her Sienna, like the crayon color, despite her having silver fur instead of brown. Upon getting Sienna, we found a new side to Emily. You see, Emily was the family baby until Sienna. Which meant that Emily had to get the attention back. She did so by following the dog everywhere she went, talking to her in the dog language (you know, the one that sounds like a mix of Dobby from Harry Potter and Mrs. Doubtfire). Now that I think about it, she still does this. Back then Emily used to sing a song to Sienna. It goes like this, “S-I-E, N-N-A. That is my doggy’s name. Sieeee-ennnaa.” She would repeat this over, and over, and over again.

Emily experienced a complete change around the time we turned twelve to when we turned thirteen. She grew her hair out, started wearing girl clothes instead of mine, and complaining. It would usually take some time for us to realize the cause the sudden change. Never mind that, she told us the first day.
She called it her present. Mother Nature gave her a “warning.” Put two and two together, and what do you get?! A real-life whining, fire-breathing dragon, itching to eat your head off for a week. Guys, you think it’s bad when your girlfriends are on their periods? Try having a twin sister. Her mood swings aren’t a roller coaster; they are the Trail of Tears, layered with the first time you eat chocolate ice cream, on top of the moment you realize Super-Man doesn’t exist.

This was also the year people, especially girls, began gossiping and everyone started dating. My older brother and I did the one thing we could do to protect her. We shot down her courage. As cute as she was, we told her she was ugly.

I’ve said, “Shut up, Emily” roughly 21,920 times in the past five years. But that girl is all my goals aspire to protect. She is the epitome of happiness, and that’s all I want her to be. It kills me to see a guy flirt with her, egging her on and making her blush, all the while an animal is clawing inside of me, howling to get out and attack the boy who will hurt my sister.