No matter how old (or how tall) my little brother gets, I guess he'll always be my baby brother. Today while I was at work, I got several quick texts in close seccession.
"Wendy...Wendy...Wendy...Wendy. Are you there?" Thinking something was terribly wrong I quickly texted back. "Yes?"
"I just tore my favorite pants on the chain of my dirt bike. Can you fix them?"
"Geez, Micah. I thought someone was dead."
Next thing I know, I'm delivered a pair of Aeropostale cargo pants that have seen better days with the entire leg shredded. Really? He must be thinking that not only am I some kind of sewing expert, but that somehow I can weave camo-colored cloth as well. Might as well weave straw into gold while I'm at it.
"Okay, I'll try," I say not wanting to disappoint him. So tonight I spent hours sewing and zig zagging and patching and hand stitching a pair of cargo pants that are frayed at the waistband and worn through on the hem. The patch job is not exactly pretty, but will probably get him through a few more jumps on his dirt bike. And I get to maintain my big-sister, fix-it reputation one more day.
I think he owes me. Good thing I have a soft spot in my heart for little brothers.
The Short Version
13 hours ago