Brandon was only four and when I asked his older brother Marty 16 to babysit, I thought I was brilliant. I'd save money and the boys would bond. Life would be grand. Or not!
Hey, it sounded like a good idea, until the phone kept ringing at my office. Each time, I heard this tiny voice. "Mom, Marty's picking on me. He won't let me watch TV. Mom, Marty won't let me eat anymore cereal. Mom, he told me I couldn't go outside."
I wondered if the next call might send me over the edge, and I really considered auctioning off both the boys, but the going rate for teens and toddlers was way down.
Minutes later, I found myself instructing Brandon to put his brother on the phone. And I promptly gave my - you're the older brother, so act like it speech. I hung up and waited, and at first, I thought they'd settled their differences.
Then, I heard my name paged on the intercom.
"Hello, this Is Pam."
I heard sobs, big weeping gasps. The breathless sounds echoed in my ear. "Brandon. Brandon. Is that you? Calm down. Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."
Finally, after waves of broken phrases, sobs and long pauses, Brandon whined, "Marty tied me up and left me on the floor between the bed and the wall. I was stuck, couldn't get up, and then he left the house."
"What do you mean? He tied you up?"
"Marty rolled me up in a blanket and tied his belt around me. And he tossed me next to the wall by the bed, and I couldn't get out. I was stuck there forever," he cried.
"Are you okay?”
"Yes."
"Then, go get your brother."
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