A Birthday Message to Maria, My Older and Wiser Sister.
November 8, 2013. Another year, another baby! Since you are recovering from such a terrible ordeal after nearly cutting off your own finger in an effort to juice a lime and just had surgery yesterday, I will only briefly mention the day you called to say “I caught your car on fire!” and then proceeded to abruptly hang up the phone in the exact moment that my mom friend lay flat on my kitchen floor after fainting at the sight of her bleeding baby. Since everything was ok, I forgive you, but, please, in your 33rd year, learn how to use jumper cables and/or borrow someone else’s car. Just kidding, what are little sisters for other than to torture and take advantage? Just kidding again, just please don’t ever light my car on fire ever again.
What can I say, that Swiss cheese hand/arm cushion looks good on you, and I doubt anyone can wear it and also hold a baby at the same time like the doctor told you not to. It does not, however, look as good as my leather pants, trench coat, black shoes, bronze shoes, various jeweled accessories, maternity pants, non maternity tops, dresses both dressy and casual, purses, clutches, skirts, blouses, and boots. May I kindly remind you that I neither made you attend college astronomy as a 13 year old, nor did you have to write a single Spanish paper in order to earn the rights to any such clothing items? De Nada.
I guess what I am trying to say is, I’m sorry I threw your makeup all over your room as revenge for locking me out of the bathroom all those mornings before 7th grade, and hiding the clothes I took from you under my bed and for cutting off your jeans when you studied abroad, and the leather pants looked really good.
We have a special thing going, you and I. Since we are married to brothers, and next-door neighbors, I can demote you to sister-in law and/or crazy neighbor with too many kids any time I want.
Despite your close proximity to my person, you still take up the most minutes on my cellphone plan. Mom calls the most, but you tend to have a better attention span.
I only had to receive your mail for four months, tops, after the mailman boycotted delivering mail to your house because “you have too many kids harassing (him)”. In your kid’s defense, the United States Post Office should avoid hiring deaf mailmen who don’t like kids. Not in your kids defense, its got to be the first time a mailman boycotted delivering mail to a residential family home. Anyway, you’re welcome and I’m super glad FedEx didn’t quit you too.
I’m also happy I could help you that day when you got your hand stuck behind that drawer and your circulation was being cut off, and there is literally no worse person you could have called to dislodge a drawer than your uncoordinated, clueless to the way mechanics work, little sister. But, we did it and your arm didn’t fall off like your finger almost did.
One year since your last birthday when we set our sights high, we still can’t play tennis.
Thank you for taking me to your pool all those days in the summer.
For forgiving my kids for messing up your pretty house all those days.
And for lending me a pair of shoes once, ok maybe twice.
And for letting me witness the birth of your sixth baby boy.
And for teaching me everything I know about motherhood (this may or may not be a compliment).
And for inspiring me to follow the will of God no matter what, and to do it with reckless abandon and steady perseverance.
You are the strongest woman I know and you are the best mom. If I were you I think I would probably shut down harder than the government. But, you don’t. You wake up and do it again and laugh as they hide stuffed animals around the house to hunt with their toy guns. Or when they hang from chandeliers in the non-cliché way, or flood the tub, or spread cake all over the stairs, or etc x 5billion.
Your baked goods are the best, and how you find the time only Pinterest knows. I’d make you a cake, but I already know you don’t want it.
You beat me in every race we ran together. I blame it on leg length, but let’s face it, it’s your heart and your will and I’ll die looking up to it. And maybe if you didn’t just almost cut off your finger I could have panted behind you on a birthday run. Maybe next year.
When I gave birth to Rita last year, I wanted so badly for her to be a girl. Beyond the desire to own matching girl outfits, there was nothing I want more for Josie than to have a sister, because sisters are the best, after they stop being so mean during the middle school years.
Please rest and get better soon! Don’t worry, your kids are only mildly driving me crazy, and baby Brendan was only once accidentally body slammed by an overzealous Rita trying to give him a hug. I’ll be sure to send the furniture-cleaning bill to you directly just in case the mailman quits again.
Here’s to so many more years, and at least a few more boys.
Happy Birthday Big Sister! May it be filled with cake not made by you, something shiny from your husband, and fewer trips to the Emergency Room.