My parents had four children, my sister Kelley, my brother Stephen (whom died when he was a baby), my brother John and myself. After my parents died 19 weeks apart, it was time to clean out the house for the new habitants, my brother John his family.
The following article was cut out of the newspaper sometime in the 1970's. It was in my room under the glass on top of my dresser ever since I can remember. I looked at it daily while getting my clothes out of the drawers always thinking that we were all so special. The article is now yellowed and torn, but now that I have three children of my own, I realize that the story pretty much remains the same.....
Dear First Born:
I've always loved you best because you were our first miracle. You were the genesis of a marriage and the fullfillment of our young love.
You substained us through the hamburger years, the first apartment (furnished in Early Poverty), our first mode of transportation (a beaten up station wagon) and a 7-inch TV we paid on for 36 months.
You were new, had unused grandparents and enough clothes for a set of triplets. You were the original model for a mom and dad who were trying to work the bugs out. You got the strained lamb, the open safety pins and the three hour naps.
You were the beginning...
Dear Middle child:
I've always loved you best because you drew a tough spot in the family and it made you stronger for it.
You cried less, had more patience, wore faded hand-me-downs and never in your life did anything first. But it only made you more special. You were the one we relaxed with and realized a dog could kiss you and you wouldn't get sick. You could cross the street by yourself long before you were old enough to get married and you helped us understand the world would not collapse if you went to bed with dirty feet.
You were the child of our busy ambitious years. Without you we would never survived the job changes and the tedium routine that is marriage.
Dear The Baby;
I've always loved you best because while endings are generally sad, you are such a joy. You readily accepted the milk-stained bibs, the lower bunk, the cracked baseball bat, the baby book that had nothing written on it except a recipe for graham cracker pie crust that someone had jammed between the pages.
You are the one we held on to so tightly, You are the link with our past, a reason for tomorrow. You darkened our hair, quicken our steps, square our shoulders, restore our vision and give us the sense of humor that security, maturity and durability can't provide.
When your hairline takes on the shape of Lake Erie and your own children tower over you, you will still be our baby. - A Mother
Up until the time my mother died (I was 38), when she introduced me to someone new she always referred to me as her "baby".
I love you Mom, wish we could have grown old together.
