Hey there buddy. It seems as if I should hit you with more posts everyweek. I just don't build my routine well enough. A blog is essential, and for that reason I should try to focus on different matters each time. At least just to teach myself to write not only from the mood, but from routine itself.
So, here it goes.

Well, I didn't state it. But my mom is out of the country. For two weeks already. She comes back next Thursday.

This state brought the fresh 18-year-old me to a test (yeah, fresh test) of my ability as an adult to manage stuff. My two lovely brothers do nothing but trouble and noise. And I am not that much of an authority around here. And I feel very bad because of it.
I taught myself to keep cool and be fair enough as to decide. But they don't think so. If I try to settle down a matter it always gets to the classic: "You're unfair!", or worse - "You just care about the other and not about me!". It is hard.

As a rookie psychoanalist, I feel frustrated by them both because I don't see their development as good and healthy. My sister, although she's 14 tends to be too hard. She doesn't like to be forced to be the elder after me. She doesn't let go when my brother is too stuck on something.
As for my dear brother, the things are pretty difficult. First, because he feels the pressure of being the young from us three, secondly, because he is a pure Israeli boy.

The pressure he feels becomes his weapon. He feels it is his duty to act as a small child, and so he doesn't force his mind to grow up. His head uses no logic, just - Fair or Unfair. This child brain of his sees all the world as a scale that is there to do "justice". He just forgets that he can be a good human being and give up some times. His Israeli temper tells him that in order to be a normal kid, he should make the world swing around him. And this is how he turns everything into a hell.
He forgets his leaks and falls and remembers only his good acts, as to prove himself righteous when I rage (mostly not) because he won't listen.

Now this makes me look at myself, when I was a kid. After all, I am no longer a kid.
So I remember when I was his age. Just twelve years old.

I wasn't a normal kid. I didn't behave like one. Mostly because I was the firstborn and many of my friends had big brothers. I didn't really grow up in a normal way.
I was a little boy, burguese who didn't ever feel the need for anything. I had it all. I was the firstborn of a Justice Court secretary and a successful lawyer mostly known as Dr. Minsky. Yes, in a little city with not so many intellectuals a lawyer was seen as a very honorable person, even more than the judges themselves and my father was well known in the city.
So there was me, little son-of-intellectual - a child with a whole future ahead of him. I will surelly be a lawyer like my father or a doctor and yes, I will too have it all - a nice house, a good wife, good children and a notably new car. I actually didn't see myself as that, I just wasn't aware of it. I felt I was "normal" like everyone else.

And there fell tragedy as rock.
The strong court man, Dr. Minsky as was known was diagnosed with a tumor in his left cerebral lobe. This tumor was about to change the rules, and everything around.
Soon I was lost between test of this and that. I don't remember many things about that first stage in his illness, but I remember the night my mom had to take him to another city for him to be treated there. I was puzzled, I was even euforic in a bad way. I couldn't sleep and all I could think of was getting myself in that ambulance where he would soon leave to seek treatment in a city located 500 kilometers from where I was. I was so puzzled that I forgot the way to the Hospital, in a city I knew pretty well. It wasn't far from its center, and I was about 10 minutes from there, but my mind was blank and my godmother hold me before I actually made it to the door. And I was frustrated. As a son to a mother that quit her job when I was 3 years old just because I asked her to, I was very attached to my mother. And I trully missed her that night. I was worried about my father's condition, but I must say it didn't concern me as much as the fact my mom was leaving me and my brothers and traveling to another place with no limit of time. I actually feel bad for it.
And in this way I actually started growing up. I was left there, and this dissattachment from my mother brought a different person to change the little kid that was in me. There I started forging myself and my character. I was forced to be the eldest, the good and accurate and now, for the first time - the man who could do almost anything.

My father came home after a long time between surgery, studies and therapy. I saw him once right after he was operated. He had some gauze around his head and looked like a man who just happened to fall. Today I know the nurses put it not only to protect the stitches from infection, but also from our little eyes who where not prepared for it.
The day he came home, which was a while after that (for me it all happened in a week now that I look back) he was different. He looked different, acted different and his head was now seen. The first thing I remember is that I didn't believe and didn't want to believe it was him. He looked so different that it was like having to accept another dad, some other guy. The stitches where still visible (some days after that they took them off) and it all looked as if his skull sunk in a perfect rainbow. From some inches in front of his left ear to the back of it, almost touching the part where the top of the skull begins.

He could barelly do anything right. He was puzzled all the time and it took him a while to remember a bit of everything. He had difficulties speaking and explaining things. He managed to drive a bit (he loved to) but it scared us so much that my mom decided to drive instead. So this man was now disabled, capable of doing stuff but with much difficulty and I had to assist him in almost everything. With time I became a master in taking care of a disabled man, and I was only 7 or 8. The difference impacted me, because this man was my father. The one who always helped me out.

And now, as I look back, I can't compare myself to my brother. I was very madure when I was his age. I was an inmigrant in a foreign land who wanted me to show some teeth before they accepted me. My father's death only showed me that now officialy - I was the man of the house. And so I became tougher. The peacemaker and the one that gave in to anything. I had to be like that.

I grew up differently. I had a mom, who was with me all the time. And a father who worked enough hours to keep us living in a high-standart of living, with enough time for me alone. I was the firstborn. The pearl of them both. I was their pride, their dreams and their future. And I was the pioneer who would open the way bravely for his brothers. And I found myself alone, as a man in a family - but also a kid who just wanted to grow up as everyone else. But I had to opt for being the man. And I had no other choise.

It's so different. To see my brother, who's genetic code is almost as mine, but still so different from me. With a choise and a wish to be a kid. I just don't want to pop his chance of being what I couldn't, or what I was for a short period of time. But I sometimes feel forced to, because I was forged like that. I became that. There is a tremendous gap in my childhood, and I don't remember most of it because my mind became so tired of it it just got deleted. As I said, all this nightmare of 7 years fitted in a week.

I don't know if I feel bad for growing up this way, or proud for it. I just would like to know what it could have been like to live the other version. With no hard nights thinking of my dying father, or my weak mother who just became a raging lioness to my surprise. Just a typical family, that goes to church every Sunday, goes on a cool vacation every year around Argentina. Gets to celebrate its own holiday - "Bugger's Day" on September the third somewhere. That still doesn't see the importance of being Jewish. That doesn't think about getting around Israel. A family that is just settled in Argentina. With a nice house on the surroundings of the city, a garden and a nice dog that keeps it. To be a boy who just sees his own tree everymorning, who has a childhood home that he adores. Full of good memories and charged with lessons for the future.

And maybe, other little voices will run again around this house in some years. Following the grey in the hair of the old parents who will now feel acomplished. And another generation is completed, in the mythological Great Argentina.

Good night.