The Birth of a Brother

I was the lucky big sister of two younger brothers. Okay, I'll be completely honest and it won't come as a shock to my youngest brother. By the time Mom was preggers with Bro-Part-Deux, I was kind of over the brother thing and I desperately wanted a sister.

Life before brothers... Ahhh. Now don't get me wrong. I LOVE MY BROTHERS! I would do anything for them, anything. But there's a running joke about a photo in my parents' house with just Mom, Dad, and little me. I've always called it, "The real family." Nice, huh? he he he. I enjoyed being an only child. I ate it up. I was really, really GOOD at it. I didn't know what I had until... it was gone. And those little brothers were here to stay.

Now brother #1 was exciting. I was three and didn't totally get it. But friends had little brothers and sisters and I understood this was what was about to happen to me. Now before you roll your eyes and say, "She can't remember that!" Let me just tell you, I have vivid memories going all the way back to when I was two. My parents will back me up on that one. I forget nothing. NOTHING!

So this blog should be pretty entertaining. Anyway, back to my story...

When R was born, they wouldn't let older siblings into the clean, clean hospital to see the perfectly aseptic new baby. They might get germs and snot and slime on the baby, so I had to wait at home to get germs and snot and slime on my brother. I got a new dress, my "Big Sister" dress. It was pink and white stripes with a white pinafore. I was absolutely PRECIOUS!

I was an excellent big sister. I was too little to be of any actual help to my frazzled, tired mother. But I did enjoy that baby quite a bit… except when he cried, which was, of course, a lot - him being a baby and all. But I loved the heck out of Baby Brother R.

As he got a little older, I found out I had a built-in playmate. AND I had someone to blame things on. Coooool. I worked this system well for years. I still have a playmate! R is one of the most intelligent, well-spoken, humorous, most interesting adults I know.

So, imagine a future outspoken political scientist with a passion for human rights in baby form was probably a handful. I’m being nice… He was a lot of kid to handle. And he’ll admit it. But he had this angelic face that made you forgive him for the things he did (aka, the turtle – but that’s a story for another day). He was my favorite thing in the world. And he can commisserate with me on being dressed in the stripes/rainbows/plaids and for him, leisure suits, of the 70s. Wow. What a decade.

    

Then three years later, mom announced to R and me that she was going to have another baby. Now, as much as I adored my little brother, I was over the brother thing. I was ready for a sister. One of my best friends, G (of the dino-tooth fame), had a sister one year older than her, J. They were besties and I really wanted that too.

This was 1976 and, like in the days of Laura Ingalls, we couldn't find out the sex of the baby before it was born. This probably would have saved my mother a lot of axiety-ridden moments with me, since I was convinced it was a girl and wouldn't even SPEAK of another boy. God just wouldn't do that to me. Of course, had she known ahead of time, she would have probably dealt with a sulky, sullen, depressed six-year-old for nine months, so either way, she was f%*ked.

I was in school one day when Dad came in to get me out of class. I had been an especially tough birth (sorry Mom!!) and a cesarean, and in those days (you know, prairie times), once you had one c-section, the next kids were all c-sections. So this had been scheduled and I knew my baby sister was being born that day. I’d been completely unmanageable in class, but my teacher was aware of the big happenings at home, so she’d been kind.

So Dad brought me out into the hallway and I can still see him leaning down to speak to me. Quietly. Caaaaarefully. Ready for whatever reaction may come. “Your mommy had the baby,” he said with a giant, suspiciously giant smile.

“Aaaaaaaaannnnnnd?!?!?!” I said with all the sarcastic impatience I could muster.

“And it’s a…”

I waited. I leaned forward. I listened even more carefully. What in the hell was he doing to me? He was making me insane here!!!

I blinked impatiently. Poor man. He just didn’t want to tell me.

“It’s a beautiful baby brother!” He exclaimed, suddenly forgetting that I didn’t want a brother. I hadn’t asked for a brother. I hadn’t prayed for a brother.

If I had been older and more experienced in life and disappointment, I may have taken this news in stride. I did not.

I threw myself on the dirty tile of that elementary school and had a fit. I mean, I had a fit on the level of a two-year-old who isn’t getting the toy she wants. I screamed. I cried. I kicked my father in the shins. People started popping their heads out of their schoolrooms.

My father asked if I wanted to go back to class. I stopped short and looked at him like the traitor he was. How could he ask such a thing? How could he be so mean? So cruel? Didn’t he understand? Obviously not.

I picked myself up, brushed myself off and said in a deadly whisper, “No, I do not want to go back to class.” I sniffed, turned around and started walking out of school. My harried father came running out behind me.

Once again, grubby kids weren’t allowed in the super spanky clean hospital, so I waited for my… brother, J, to come home.

I had to admit, the kid was cute. I begrudgingly held him and the minute I did, I fell madly in love. R wasn’t as intrigued. The next morning, R came out to the dining room with a big smile on his face. Mom said, “Why R! You’re awfully happy this morning!”

R replied, “Yes I am!” and smiled even larger – that Cheshire cat kind of smile. I looked carefully at my mom. She looked carefully at my dad. Dad looked carefully at R.

“Rrrrrrr???? Why are you so happy this morning?” She asked, knowing the things this angelic-looking child could pull off.

“’Cause the garbage man came this morning and he Took. That. Baby. Away,” R announced with a rather disturbing look of pride.

Mom and Dad looked at each other and ran into the nursery, expecting to find no J, but there he was, all asleep and cute in his crib.

R looked so disappointed when they told him the baby was staying. He was permanent. But I decided to make the best of it. I was six now and baby dolls were a favorite plaything. Now I had the perfect baby doll. And he was real!

So my friends and I dressed him up (as much like a girl as we could – we even used some of my old baby things), we pushed him around the yard in the carriage. We played house to our hearts’ content. I’m sure Mom was happy to have a little helper.

In later years, when J was three or four, my friends and I were still dressing him up – mostly in our dance costumes. My favorite photo of J is of him in my pink tutu. I cannot share that because blood or not, he would probably sue my ass for posting that one.

As the years went by, of course, the three of us found our balance. I beat them up until they got bigger than me and then they beat me up for the rest of my life. They are my best friends and I wish they lived closer, but I am glad… after all… that they were boys and they are my brothers. After all, I am the princess. I am Daddy’s only girl. Not a bad gig, eh?