Everyone at home pokes fun at Asna sometimes — especially my brother and I. One time she got fed up and complained to our parents:
“I hate being the youngest. Everyone bullies me!”
She was angry for a while. After that our parents consoled her, telling her that it’s okay to be the youngest, because Mama and Babah love her the most.
After that she was fine.
“So you still hate being the youngest?”
“No, Mama and Babah love me more because I’m the youngest!”
She says it very proudly until today. Even used it as a weapon in a weak attempt to annoy her siblings.
So last night I entered their bedroom. Dad was trying to have a nap on the massage chair, while my mum was surfing on her iPad mini on the bed. Asna was there, lying beside my mum, holding her arms. When she saw me, Asna held my mum’s arm tighter.
She raised her eyebrows, smug.
“Mama loves me more than she loves you.”
Time for rebuttal:
“No. She loves me more because she made pizza for me when I was a child. Does she make pizza for you?”
“But she always buys me my favorite food.”
“She doesn’t cook for you. She cooked for me.”
(In actual truth it’s really because we didn’t have a long-term maid, back then.)
She still wanted to fight:
“Mama loves me more because I’m the youngest. She spends more time with me and I get more attention!”
“No, she’s only spent a little more than 9 years with you. She’s been paying attention to me for more than 26 years.”
She was babbling at that point, started to make less sense. My dad was on the massage chair still, with eyes closed, but smiling. My mum was already chuckling. Throughout, they didn’t interfere the childish bickering. It was just Asna and I.
But before I left the room, I told her:
“Mama loves me more, that’s why she gave birth to me first. Why do you think you were born last?”
She can try, but she can’t win.