Never Has An Accident Been So Loved. Also, There Are No Accidents.

It’s my baby brother’s birthday. Pop over and tell him happy 30th. You’ll make his day! And if you DO pop over, please ignore his Santa post. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

 

30 years ago my life changed in a fundamental way. My mother went away for several nights and I was left bereft, an 11 year old who had no clue how to cope without her ever-comforting presence. Apparently, my father had even less of a clue, since I found him in the kitchen one morning with two pieces of bread in his hands, befuddlement written all over his face.

 

Which side do you toast the bread on? he asked.

 

Why yes, she DID wait on us hand and foot. What’s your point?

 

When she returned, she was toting an alien being. Red-faced, crumpled, and not all that attractive, he was nonetheless welcome into my heart. It had been 9 years since there had been a baby in the house, and it took me several days to recognize his crying as human and not some stray cat that had wandered in.

 

babies make such nice Christmas gifts!

 

In the midst of some very trying years involving strife and rebellion on an epic scale (not my own, my older sister’s) in which the house was frequently filled with explosions that flung shrapnel deep into my heart, my baby brother was a singularly bright ray of delightful sunshine that never failed to lift my spirits. Watching him learn and grow and lisp out his first words never got old.

 

just say no to home perms…

 

Everything he did was exceptional. This was partly because he was exceptional, and partly because I had no frame of reference for what was amazing and what was normal; at my friends’ homes there were no babies, only Wham! posters and sparkly nail polish and Judy Blume books. My friends all thought he was pretty amazing too.

 

look at me and my bad-ass flash-dance self!

 

When I had my first baby, my baby brother was seven years old. He was a world-class uncle. He thought my kids were the sweetest things ever, and made them feel like their visits were his whole world.

 

I believe that’s a “rock lord” in his hand. Does anyone else remember rock lords?

 

Two summers ago, he became a father himself, and became, as he put it “a baby man”. His writing about his baby girl never fails to awe me. Here’s my baby brother, all grown up and writing about spiritual stuff. Well…when he’s not writing about boobies.

 

He’s a little random, just like his big sister.

 

It has taken me a while to see him as an adult, I’ll be the first to admit. Sometimes I still want to smile condescendingly at him and pat his head when he talks about his dreams and hopes, and then I realize that I’d have to reach quite a ways upwards to do it. He’s got a real job and a real family and a real life of his own now. And he’s covered in tattoos. And I know they don’t let babies get tattoos.

 

 

Ten things I love about my baby brother:

 

1. He cries at cartoons. Just like me.

 

2. He doesn’t think women should be shadows and stick figures.

 

3. He makes me laugh.

 

4. I feel very petite around him.

 

5. He loves my kids.

 

6. He loves his wife and would gladly throw himself in front of a bullet for her.

 

7. He loves his daughter with the intensity of a hot blue star (and no, I don’t mean Mystique from X-men)

 

8. He’s not afraid to admit when he doesn’t know something.

 

9. He’s not afraid to make fun of himself.

 

10. He loves the Lord and isn’t afraid to say so.

 

 

Happy Birthday, Chris. I was happy when you came into my life, and I’ve only gotten more grateful for the fact as the years have gone by!