My little brother had a birthday last week, and he turned 25. The whole thing is rather frightening to me because I remember very clearly the day he was born. I was a perky four year old with wildly curly hair, so excited for what I was sure would be a little sister to play with me: it seemed like a good time to cut my imaginary twin sister, Marie, loose. It seems strange to me that my brother and I are both well and truly adults now. Luckily, we’ve both staunchly refused to grow up completely, so that’s a bit of a help.
On the day my little brother made his grand, messy entrance, Momma and Dad dropped me off with the dayhome lady and headed over to our small town hospital so the doctor could catch the new baby. I don’t remember how long it took, or what the weather was doing, although I have a vague memory of rain, but eventually my dad came back to pick me up. This all happened back when children weren’t herded ironically out of the maternity wards, and I was allowed to hold my very fresh new brother.
If certain companies aren’t allowed to show super airbrushed photographs of celebrities because such images are misleading, I think all those diaper, formula, and butt ointment companies should be made to use photos of real infants on their packages and their advertisements. Picture me, four years old and expecting a peachy, pretty baby like the ones on television, only to be handed a red and squishy little brother. Never mind that I really wanted a baby girl, because by that point even I understood that there was no sending him back like a new sofa that’s delivered in the wrong pattern. I just expected a cooing, grinning little bundle, and I had no idea how unsettling a newborn that’s been delivered in the standard fashion can be.
On that note, check out the size of that kid’s head. My momma was a maternity superhero.
When I was a kid, and my little brother drove me crazy daily, I never would have believed that we’d get along as adults. I’ve almost forgotten about the time he locked me in the sheep shed, causing the ram to attack me and break my finger. I’m over the day he “reorganized” all the one inch squares for a 1400 piece mosaic wall hanging I quilted in highschool (go, 4-H). All those shenanigans happened a long time ago.
These days, he’s just my (big) little brother, and I love him.
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