There hasn’t been a moment as pivotal and precious in my life than the day I held my baby brother in my arms for the first time. I remember vividly the first few months of jealousy that consumed me after we brought him home. I wasn’t used to sharing my parents’ attention, and it was an arduous adjustment. The cherished bedtime stories, my favorite oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and even our nightly bike rides were now memories, because caring for an infant left them bereft of any energy. I had to learn how to share the two people who meant the most to me in the entire world, but for my little brother, I was willing to make it work.
One year later, and he had become an adorable bundle of joy that brought a smile on the faces of everyone he met. The night he took his first steps I felt so incredibly proud to be his big sister. My family and I were sitting around the Christmas tree one December evening watching reruns of Full House when he wobbled from the couch all the way into my arms on the other side of the room. His face glowed as everyone in my family clapped and cheered. I become so protective of my little brother that I began to develop the habit of sleeping with the baby monitor tucked under my arm, ready to jump out of bed and come to his rescue if I heard even a whimper. I treated him like a precious gem, scared to let him out of my sight for even a minute.
Although I love my brother more than anything in the world, sibling fights are inevitable, especially when little brothers ruin the science project you worked on until three in the morning. When he spilled his spaghetti all over my poster I yelled at him until he cried, and I had never before felt so ashamed. He didn’t mean to do it, and he apologized over and over again. I couldn’t stay mad at him for long, and ten minutes later I suffocated him with a hug and told him I’d always forgive him, no matter what. The horrible but necessary feeling of guilt I couldn’t seem to get rid of afterwards brought me back to the day in the hospital room, and reminded me that no fight is more important than my little brother.
Last weekend he turned ten years old. I watched him open his presents and Instead of getting a tricycle and legos, he ripped open the paper to find a BB gun and his first Harry Potter book. I thought about how much he’d grown over the years, and suddenly I found myself back in the stuffy hospital room staring at this tiny pink human that I had yet to meet. Whether it be his eleventh birthday or his sixty fifth, I want to be sitting there right next to him as he blows out his candles. I’m incredibly grateful for the bond we share and the way that we always know how to make each other smile. He’s taught me both responsibility and forgiveness, but most importantly the significance of having someone in your life as special as a little brother.
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