My mom loves to tell this story about me – so if you haven’t already heard it, here’s your opportunity to hear it from the horse’s mouth…
When I found out my mom was pregnant with Emma, I was nine years old. Faith was 12 and we’d gone the entirety of our childhood thinking it would just be the two of us from here on out. Faith would beg for another sibling – but I was perfectly content as the baby.
I loved being doted on. I loved the attention. I loved being cared for and carried and slept with and fed. It was as if the birth order gods looked down upon me and said, “You were created for this. And this is where you’ll stay.”
And then, one day, my baby-being-glory was over.
Faith and I went to my grandparents’ house after school because my mom “wasn’t feeling well” and my dad went with her to the doctor. When they came to pick us up, they walked into the wallpapered living room and sat us down on my grandma’s couch. I knew something was up.
“We’re having a little baby!” my mom said, a hesitant smile plastered across her face as she waited to see how we would react.
Faith, of course, angel-child in all her ways, responded exactly how you might expect the responsible oldest sibling to respond. She instantly lit up and beamed as she jumped up and down with pure, unbridled excitement.
Well, my mom likes to say I didn’t even bend my legs and just threw myself to the ground. In completes shock, my knees locked and I fell forward to the floor.