Love Thursday

My brother, my only sibling, was born when I was eleven years old. I'll never forget being taken out to a fancy restaurant to be told The News. And I nearly lost my fancy-schmancy supper because I couldn't believe that My Parents were having a baby. A baby! Was the Apocalypse upon us, because, as a fifth grader with no other siblings, the thought hadn't entered my head in years. But there they were, telling me, and I had to "take like a man."
I spent a lot of my childhood "taking it like a man."
I don't think I've ever quite forgiven myself for my raging sibling jealousy. Oooooh, how I Hated that baby! How I hated my parents for allowing his conception! How I hated their excitement, their giggles, their delight. I Did Not Want this Baby, and that was that. And hatred and rage boiled inside me, carefully hidden from everyone else. I, of course, appeared to be just Thrilled to have another child Take My Place and Be Loved More Than Me. (The one time I ever became upset about this in front of my mother, she became so upset with me that I never let it happen again.) I was just So Mad.
Then a funny thing happened. My brother almost didn't get born. He came six weeks early, and the birth had so many complications, we weren't sure he was going to make it. But he did. And then he came home. And I fell in love. I fell in love with his sweet kissable face, his chubby legs, his blond girls, his radiant smile. And I could not hate him anymore, not as I rocked him to sleep or held him while he cried. Not when I picked him up and swung him around and made up songs just for him. He was, and is, My Baby, and no one can take that away.
That was 12 years ago. A lot of things have happened in that length of time. The craziness of our family has taken a toll on him, and he is now an adolescent, somewhat angry, somewhat cynical, very hurt. He rarely smiles anymore. It makes my heart ache to see him, to see what he has to live with, to see the way he shoots himself in the foot. He reminds me so much of myself at 12 and a half years old, only he doesn't even have a little baby to love. That I think was part of my saving grace. But, I remind myself, we are Survivors. I was a survivor, and he will be one too. Only six more years, and he will be out of this house, out and free and able to be who he truly is. We are strong, and we can make it. I hope he will let me help him.
I love you, my darling little brother, and I always will. Let's survive together!