I’m the oldest of three and all I have are brothers. I’m five years older than one, and seven years older than the other. When they were really little, people used to ask my parents if they were twins. Nothing made me happier than when my mom brought my little brothers to school events, where I got to hold them and show them off to all of my friends. We would coo and sigh and giggle with them. It was all fun and games, with the occasional spit-up incident.

Then I got older. And naturally, so did they. There always have, and always will be, those years between all of us. By the time they were old enough to really understand most things, I was a teenager and "Above Everything That Wasn’t Cool," in typical teenage fashion.

I no longer played with them and their stuffed toys; I started seeking out my friends over my two little brothers who, at the time that I turned 13, were under the age of 10, and therefore "Didn’t Understand Me."

But still, deep down, I was very jealous that they had that close of a bond; they did most things together, and had that great sibling affection that occurs with many siblings close in age. But 20 months is a lot shorter of a time than five or seven years, and they related more to each other than to me (also the fact that they’re boys probably also had a lot to do with it).

But I began to resent their close bond, and wished that I had a sibling closer in age to me (but still younger) with whom I could confide in all of my secrets and fears — things I didn’t want to tell our parents or friends.

As we’ve all gotten older (my littlest brother is now 13,) that age difference is slowly slipping away. My 15-year-old brother is suddenly making sarcastic comments to me about our political atmosphere. He asks me about my high school experience and what he should expect now that he’s a sophomore, and sometimes even talks to me about girls.

My 13-year-old brother is beginning to walk that road as well, throwing witty and sarcastic remarks at what I say left and right.

Little brothers are the second most annoying thing on the planet, right after mosquitos. Every other picture of the three of us has one of them throwing a pair of bunny ears behind my head, and the next time that I get hit in the face with a soccer ball inside is going to be the kicker’s last time kicking a soccer ball.

But if I was asked if I wanted to redo it all, I’d say no. Because even though my little brothers are probably the most obnoxious people on the planet, a day without their idiocy is a day that the sun doesn’t shine and nothing feels right.