Happy Birthday Squit Bag!

It is my younger sister's birthday today. That's her on the right, looking all cheeky and impish and adorable. She hasn't changed much.

I was the older Oh-My-God-What-Have-We-Done? child, whereas she was lucky to be the We-Know-What-We're-Doing-Now-And-Isn't-She-A-Doddle? younger sister. She had all the gifts that I dreamed of as a child but appeared to be lacking. She was a tiny, scrap of a thing: funny, sassy, confident, mischievous and unbelievably cute. She could regale a room of adults with a song or a dance, a poem or a well told joke from the age of 2. From my perspective she was a right royal pain the neck and the biggest thorn in my side. She was my mum's favourite and I wanted to be her so much it hurt.

'Squit Bag' was my mum's nickname for her. That and 'CrumbleBumble'...shortened to 'CrumbleBum'. I'm not sure why. I think it had something to do with the fact she was blessed with a tiny lithe frame and a pert, pinchable bottom. She is still blessed with these attributes even at the ripe old age of 39. (She must have been so good in a previous life.) As for myself, I don't remember warranting a nickname. Certainly not one pertaining to a small pert behind. Although Big Boned Clumsy Lump springs to mind.

I don't remember us ever being 'friends' growing up. But that all changed when we left home and forged our own identities outside of the roles we were assigned in the family. It was then that we bonded and created the friendship we have today. Now, she is my best friend and undoubtedly a soul-mate in the way that no one else ever will be.

I love you little sis. Happy Birthday to you and your impossibly pert bottom. If my boys have a fraction of the love for each other that we do, then I will be happy.

I could waffle on and on (as I am prone to do) about how much I value her love, advice, guidance and support. How, when we're together, we always end up weeping with laughter over the silliest of things that no one else finds funny. And how it amuses me no end to get her pissed on half a glass of wine and watch as she loses all coordination and starts slurring her words (such a lightweight).

And how sorry I am not to be with her (again) on her birthday.

But instead I will share the most infamous of our family stories...which includes references to independence, bums and firemen, in that order.

Whilst on a play date at a neighbour's house, my 2 year old sis needed to answer a call of nature. She went to the upstairs bathroom, locked the door behind her and sat down on the loo. Now, this being a house full of little boys, the toilet seat had been left up. So she sat directly on the porcelain toilet rim to do a wee.

No one is quite sure what happens next. Maybe a little cough or a sneeze caused her to lose her tenuous grip on the side of the bowl? Maybe she was playing a game of 'dunk your bottom in the toilet bowl' and lost? Who knows. However, within a couple of minutes of locking herself in the bathroom she falls bottom first into the toilet - and gets stuck with her knees up by her ears and feet, by all accounts, above her head.

All the mums in the house hear the hollering of a child in distress and come rushing to the rescue. Only they can't get into the bathroom. I am not sure that anyone appreciates the predicament my sister is in initially. She is only 2 after all and it is hard to decipher the descriptive articulation of a toddler when combined with high pitched shrieking and sobbing. I can only imagine my mum's panic at hearing her cries - not knowing what the bloody hell is going on but judging from the noise it is obvious that at the very least my sister has somehow removed a limb - and not being able to help. Finally, it becomes clear that my little scrap of a sister has fallen down the loo and all the neighbours arrive to join forces in begging and cajoling my sister to use her arms to lever herself out.

No can do.

Ultimately at her wit's end, my mum calls the fire brigade and within 10 minutes three fire engines come screaming into the cul-de-sac, lights whirring and sirens blazing. People from streets away wander over to watch what they assume to be some of their neighbours burning to a slow and terrible death.

In a jiffy the firemen assess the situation and shin up the outside of the house on a ladder to the bathroom window (which by luck is open a smidge). Quick as you like they reach a pole through the window, unlatch the lock and my sister is successfully unwedged and rescued by our relieved mum.

All the by-standing neighbours cheer and - this being the 70s - a small street party no doubt commences. In the meantime the local newspaper have been on standby and duly take photos of the 'heroes and victim'.

The following day an article appears in the paper. Accompanying it is a photo of the firemen holding an upturned fireman's hat with my sister perched in it, little legs dangling over the side. The caption reads, "Rescued at last...and looking a little flushed."

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SQUIT BAG!!! I love you.