If you regularly read my articles or follow them in any way, you may have noticed that I enjoy writing a lot about my childhood and all things nostalgic (ie. 27 Signs You Grew Up Playing Soccer, 18 Children's Books That Will Make You Miss Story Time, or most recently From a Grandma's Girl ). Revisiting my childhood has led to the memory file being pulled out of the good ole' noggin and I have to admit, the nostalgia is almost crippling.

One of my favorite memories growing up is when my older brother and I squished together in my parents' bed reading a book. If I remember correctly, we read quite a few books together growing up from The Magic Treehouse books to the Harry Potter series.

Our mom started out by reading the stories to us before we could handle the longer chapter books on our own but when we could both read for ourselves: yikes. I honestly do not know how our parents put up with us constantly fighting over books; how the local library did not blacklist us I will never know. I mean, we were pretty awful, especially when it came to a book's release date from a series we would both be reading.

The constant fights over who would get to read the book first were neverending, and then when we actually got our hands on the book the stealing and fighting were non-stop until we both finished the book. It never seemed to matter if a decision had been made about who would get to read the book first (and most of the time our parents were included in that lineup), all bets were off when it came to reading a book.

Leaving the house was the ultimate sin when it came to keeping a hold of the book. I would cry about having to leave for soccer practice because I was not allowed to take the book with me when I left the house, so it was inevitable that I would not get to read again until the person who claimed the book after me would make the mistake of leaving the book lying around. It could be hours. It could be days. Nothing was ever certain when you lost control of the book.

As much as I loathed giving up ownership of the story we were all so invested in, I still remember loving the fact that I could share something so special with my family, especially with my brother. We were (and are) so close in age that we practically shared everything: books, friends, teachers, coaches, even clothes (although that was more me stealing his clothes to wear).

I loved having an older brother to learn from while growing up, and still love that I have him to talk to and hang out with when I am home. Things have changed, sure; we live in different states for the majority of the year and are not under the same roof 24/7 but I still love that I can pick up the phone and call him late at night when I am walking alone in the dark back to my dorm, or just hang out and watch a movie and have pizza over holiday breaks together.

Older brothers may be the worst, but in reality, they are the best.