Facebook told me that today is National Sibling Day and that Cambridge Analytica stole all my personal data. Seems like a day to celebrate!
Basically, I have the two best siblings in the world, and no one can disagree. So there. I was the youngest by a few years, so I was equally parts spoiled and annoying. Mostly, family folklore says I was annoying. My earliest childhood memories include being dangled over the banister by Doug and struggling for breath as I suffocated (nearly) to death in the toy box. I had apparently gone TOO FAR, so he emptied out every. single. toy and then shoved me in and sat on the lid. I fully blame him for my claustrophobia and greatest fear of being buried alive. (I could also maybe blame the Days of Our Lives storyline in which Carly was buried alive by Vivian. But then we would have to also blame my mother for letting me watch DOOL at such a young age.) I'm guessing Brenda was equally annoyed by me. On the night of her junior prom, I was delegated the essential task of taking the traditional photo of Brenda and Rich (now her husband of over 20 years!) in front of the fireplace. Mom and Dad were already at the high school prepping for their chaperone duties. I, however, was clearly (and justifiably) angry that earlier that same day Brenda had refused to let me sleep in her full-size bed that night. Instead I would be forced to suffer another night in my comfortable twin bed that was just the right size for me. So because I was so deservedly angry, I posed Brenda and Rich in front of the mantle and snapped the photo. This was the pre-digital era, so imagine their surprise when they picked up the printed photos a week later to realize that I had snapped the perfect photo....from the neck down. I'd like to say that I got better with age, but that doesn't seem to be the case. When I was a freshman in college, I spent a month in Paris studying the language and culture. And also the male German tourists and the wine. Doug and Brenda drove several hours to retrieve me from the airport in Chicago. I spent the first six hours of the trip sobbing uncontrollably in the backseat because I was so desperate to return to the beautiful language and culture. And also to the male German tourists and the wine. I was an inconsolable mess of "I DON'T WANNA GO HOME!" So because they truly cared about my cultural development, they planned stops at the boyhood home of Ronald Reagan and the birthplace of John Deere. While I may not have been excited at the time, today I can look back with gratitude that I had these essential experiences in American history. (Excuse the photo quality. This was still the pre-digital age.) Despite my annoying tendencies, my siblings are two of my best friends today. Doug took me to a Billy Joel concert where I cried like a baby during "Piano Man." I can also attribute my uncanny knowledge about Larry Bird to Doug. He played the trumpet when I walked down the aisle, he routinely provides free medical advice, and he sends the best texts about our shared love of podcasts. (Give Revisionist History and Heavyweight a listen.) He loves me and my husband and my kids, and he makes a mean gin and tonic. Basically, he's the best. Brenda (a.k.a. B) brought her firstborn to visit me in my tiny studio apartment in Cedar Falls where we watched classic musicals on DVD. She sings the best harmonies to the Indigo Girls on roads trips, and she didn't even freak out when I cried at her 40th birthday party because post-adoptive depression is REAL. When I told her we were thinking about moving to Saint Paul, she didn't complain for one second but instead, in the fashion of our Grandma Dorothy, she encouraged and supported us every step of the way. Basically, she's the best. So today I raise a glass to Doug and Brenda. We don't always get to choose our family, but seriously these two are my #1 pick! (I'll write a blog for Cambridge Analytica some other day.)
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Facebook reminded me of this post from almost SIX years ago. That means in just a few days, we celebrate SIX YEARS as a family of four. What a delightfully hard and beautiful journey. These were the last words I published before becoming a mom.
----------- When I was nineteen, my best friend Christa and I would perch ourselves (sometimes precariously...) on stools with colored bottles purchased at a garage sale used as microphones. Our song of choice was usually something like "Angel of the Morning" or "Leavin' on a Jet Plane". We preferred this version by Chantal Kreviazuk. I would try to blend in some harmony while Christa belted out the melody. The song was simple; really so was my life. Our biggest drama was picking out what matching outfits we wanted to wear to the party that night. Boys would come and go out of my life at that time. I kissed a lot of frogs and a couple of almost-princes before I met Chris. Tonight I was in the shower thinking about that song, thinking about the jet plane that I will leave on tomorrow with my husband and favorite life partner to bring home two beautiful boys (photos coming soon!). The lives of all four of us are on an unalterable path that will surely contain many bumps. I've done some crying in the past few days for various reasons, but now my bags really are packed. They really are ready to go. I looked at the spider veins as I shaved my legs in the shower tonight and thought, "That nineteen-year-old girl couldn't be me." The crows feet laugh lines next to my eyes weren't there during those college. I definitely wouldn't (or at least shouldn't) fit into the same tight clothes I wore back then. And sometimes I want so desperately to go back. Back to the time when my biggest challenge was squeezing in 30 minutes to study for a biology test or remembering to tutor the cute baseball players for a French credit. It was so simple. So easy. It was all about me. But now a few years have passed. Yes, sometimes I want to go back to the stool with the fake microphone and the pretend audience of fans. I want it to be all about me. It's not anymore, though. Nope. Tomorrow when I leave on the jet plane, I will remember that this story really isn't about me. It never has been. So I take a deep breath, recenter, close my eyes, and leap. I don't know the final chapter, but I trust the Author. |
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