In an old black and white photograph, two boys are standing next to each other. One is pudgy, holding a ball glove, and wearing a cap. The other is half as tall, in diapers, and eating a cookie. they both look like they have been crying. Tell the story of what happened before the photo was taken.

"Ma!" I called as I ran heavily down the steps from my room.

"Yes, Wally dear?" my mother appeared at the kitchen doorway behind the stairs.  She was wearing a ruffly apron over her bright blue house dress, and she was glowing prettily from the heat of the stove. Ma loved to bake.  She made the best chocolate chip cookies in town which was probably why I was the chubbiest kid in 4th grade.

"I'm heading out to play ball in the lot," I called as I pulled on my New York Yankees ball cap and grabbed my official Mickey Mantle glove and well worn baseball.

"All right, sweetie, just be home for dinner.  We're having pot roast, your father's favorite,"  my mom bustled over to me and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

"Maaaaa,"  I wailed turning pink with embarrassment.  "You don't hafta --"

My complaint was cut off by a horrible scream of frustration and agony.

"Oh dear,"  my mother hurried back into the kitchen with me trailing right behind her.

Inside the kitchen my three year old brother, Eugene, was screaming like a bear had taken a bite out of him.  He was holding his tattered blanket and wearing a dirty white t-shirt and a saggy cotton diaper as he teetered precariously on his tiptoes on a kitchen chair.   He had shoved the chair across the room and over to the counter nearest the cookie jar.

This wasn't the first time Eugene had tried this, and that was the reason for the scream. It seemed that Ma had moved the cookie jar further from the edge to prevent this type of assault, and Eugene couldn't reach the jar.   Whenever Eugene was thwarted, he made sure everyone in the house and on the street knew about it.

"Eugene, dear." my mother began patiently, talking loudly and slowly. "You cannot have another cookie until after dinner.  You don't want to spoil your appetite for pot roast, sweetie.  It is your father's favorite."

"Cookie!"  Eugene wailed, pounding his fists on the counter and screaming.

"Eugene, baby, don't pound so, you are going to hurt yourself," she said in her sing song voice, the one that meant she was trying very hard to be a good mother and not lose her cool.  She approached him carefully, dodging his fists and plucking him off of the chair.  She put him down on the linoleum floor where he melted into a crying, screaming pile of red-hot, stinking, brother.

I turned on my heel, planning to get out while the going was good.  Unfortunately, at the same time, my mother had one of her IDEAS.

My mother's IDEAS were always duds.  They usually involved me or my father doing something we didn't want to do.  Last weekend she had an IDEA that dad and I would build a dog house in the backyard, but we don't have a dog.  Before that she had the IDEA that we should take down the wallpaper in the kitchen even though it was less than a year old. Whatever her IDEA was, it always involved a lot of hard work for dad or me, and lately her IDEAS were starting to involve Eugene too. This was ridiculous because it was obvious that Eugene was too small to take down the wallpaper or use a hammer without bashing all of us with it, but Ma was determined.

"Oh, Wally, dear, why don't you take Eugene with you down to the lot to play baseball.  I'm sure he would love to get some fresh air and sunshine," my mother smiled down at me like an innocent angel.

"Maaaa," I complained. "Eugene is too little for baseball.  He'll just get in the way and make all my friends mad.  Don't make me take him," I pleaded, but my mother was shaking her head.

"Wally," she scolded.  "Your brother is plenty old enough to go to the lot.  It will be fun for both of you!"  I could tell she was warming up to the IDEA as her eyes sparkled and she rubbed her hands together.

"Let me just get the camera first though.  It will be a wonderful memento for the scrapbook! Eugene's first ball game," she hurried off to find the Kodak, and I looked down at Eugene.  His eyes were red and he was sniffling.

I sighed.  Every time I thought things were getting the better, Ma's IDEAS got in the way.  I hadn't wanted a brother, but Ma thought it was a good IDEA.  I hadn't wanted to move to a bigger house, but Ma had that IDEA in her head, and now baseball was going to be ruined forever all because Ma had had another of her grand IDEAS!

I looked down at Eugene and could feel my lower lip quivering, and my eyes felt stingy with tears.  I went over to the cookie jar and lifted the lid, handing a big chocolate chip cookie to Eugene as a tiny act of rebellion.

He jumped up off the floor and snatched the cookie, doing a little dance of joy.

"Cookie!  B-Ball!"  He stomped his feet in happiness as my tears escaped the edges of my eyelids and ran down my face.  I wiped them away as my mother floated into the kitchen with the Kodak raised high.

"Say cheese!"  she said.