Twenty-seven years ago Paul arrived early. Not three months early of course, but a couple of weeks. Mom woke up early, but ignored her symptoms because he wasn’t due yet. (Boy do I know that feeling!) Finally, she realized it would be exceedingly prudent to get her pregnant belly to the hospital ASAP.
Twenty-seven(ish) minutes later, I had been rudely removed from mud-pie preschool and had a new baby brother.
Mom called G.G. “Happy Birthday Mom. You have a new grandson.”
During the first few years, I wasn’t terribly thrilled with his presence. Periods of silence in the house would often be followed by the two of us trying to kill each other. How exciting that Search and Destroy have started fighting early. Search kicked his brother in the head while the two were in utero. Destroy laughs at his brother now when he has to have his nasal cannula replaced.
But then, inexplicably, as we got older Paul got less annoying. We traded baseball cards and played catch on summer evenings. (Sorry about that baseball through the back of the Volvo, Dad.) We entertained each other during long nights before birthday or Christmas. We talked about relationships and argued over whose turn it was to monopolize the phone. We fixed Mom’s computer and rolled our eyes at our parents’ general lack of coolness.
I know that someday the muppets will be rolling their little eyes at Jon and me. But I hope that they will think their brother is cool. And they’re certainly lucky to have such a cool uncle! (Even if I’ve always been a tad jealous that he gets to share such a special relationship with our Grandma.)