I was 8 years, 3 months and 2 days old when my baby sister was born. We had all been talking about it for what seemed like ages, in retrospect, probably not very long at all.
My mother was not particularly thrilled to be pregnant at the ripe old age of 31. I was the oldest and my brother was 17 months younger than me. Both grandmothers and my maternal grandfather lived with us all during our younger years and took over our “raising” while mother and dad both taught school.
I was to get to name the baby if a girl and the guys (Dad and brother) if a boy. I immediately knew I was going to name her after my paternal great-great-grandmother. My grandmother and great-grandmother (who both lived until well into my adulthood) were thrilled.
The guys – a different matter. Finally they came up with “Jimmy John Pete”. My mother, a third grade teacher, immediately nixed that with “It will take the entire top of the paper to write his name.” Next came “Cecil Percy” and my mother declared we were having a girl. To my delight, a beautiful baby girl was born and I was in heaven.
My brother promptly tried to trade her for a pony. I was horrified and Grandpa H. had to sooth my worried brow by assuring me that it was not going to happen.
From that moment on, I was a mother. I was by her side at every opportunity. I wanted to protect her and show her off. After all, she was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened. She now took the place of the ever-present doll that I had protected from the world (my brother and his friends who delighted in torturing them to see me cry).
Through the years and into our adult lives this relationship has not changed. I am her sister, mother and best friend. She was the first “love of my heart” as a mother.
