“I wish I had an older sister that would do things with me.”

So went the rambling wistfulness of my youngest son for a nurturing sibling. The youngest of four boys, he clearly understands the bottom of the pecking order and, at times, the loneliness that goes with it.

“Yeah, but if you had an older sister she would probably torture you like your Aunt Pam used to do to your Uncle Bobby,” I told him, explaining about the time she dressed my youngest brother in a bikini and took pictures for posterity’s sake.

While raising four sons had its moments with the bickering and the occasional wrestling match over a bad call in a pickup game of baseball in the backyard, after the dust settled it was usually done and over and they resumed the inning.

However, the rules of engagement among sisters are vastly different: no holds barred verbal sparring, intricate scheming, and lengthy grudge-holding are among the weapons contained in the female arsenal.

Looking back I hate to admit all the terrible things we three sisters did to each other. Like the time I told my sister, Judy, that our rabbit had had babies. While she climbed inside the new rabbit hutch to have a closer look, I locked her in and then hid. I can still hear my dad yelling at her for being inside and the accompanying spanking she got.

Because I felt so bad afterward and afraid that she would punch me, I ate a piece of dog food as penance. Till this day I never knew why my dad didn’t question how she could have possibly locked herself inside.

Less than a year apart in age, Judy and I often teamed up against our oldest sister, Pam, making fun of her when she got her first training bra and tattling to dad that she was the one lighting candles at our home on Third Street (the two of us enjoyed watching that spanking while ensconced in the safety of the living room closet).

However, karma has a way of coming to call. The payback came a few years later when Pam ratted Judy out for lighting matches in the basement of our new home. While I wasn’t allowed to partake in the fire experimentation, I was guilty by association and shared the spanking – a trend that would continue.

As we grew and our hormones began to rage, my dad began spending more and more time down in the basement, hiding from the PMS fallout of three teenage daughters. Much to my father’s relief we graduated from high school and left home to find our way in the world.

Sitting around a table or a campfire nowadays we can laugh at the silly things we fought over (who cares now if Pam said Judy and I couldn’t like Donny Osmond because he was hers), the embarrassment we caused each other (no, Raymond the bed-wetter was not my boyfriend!) and the betrayal (was it me that really told mom and dad you two were smoking the bathroom?)

Although we’ve had our small differences as adults, we have truly become close friends, holding one another other up during the hard times and celebrating the joys and victories in each other’s lives. After all, it’s wise to remain on the good side of people who know all your childhood secrets and more.