Little Sister

I may have explained a bit about my fractured family tree in the past. I'm lucky to get this post up; searching through old posts isn't going to happen. And besides, it's a bit like the start of Genesis, only in addition to all the begetting there would be all the wedding and divorcing and wedding anew. I tried reading Genesis three times. It's not fun.


Suffice to say that I am the oldest girl and second oldest of all the versions of siblings in my family. The second girl is my sister, Rachelle. We always called her Shelly or Shell. Turns out she hates that, but it's a hard habit to break. All three names are my little sister.


We are 28 days apart in age. I was the smart one who took advanced classes. She struggled academically. Shell was held back a grade, but still was mostly in special ed classes.


I was the chubby one with frizzy blonde hair, super pale skin and a fiery temperament. She was the sweet, thin, pretty girl who had long silky chestnut hair and hazel eyes.


I did well in gymnastics. She took piano lessons for a while, and did very well.


Probably the biggest difference between us was how we dealt with our insecurities. She retreated. I was bombastic. She was occasionally the tool I used to make myself feel better. It was an easy thing to do, point out her "flaws" or my so-called strengths. My dad (her dad, really) still talks about her as though she were some lovable clumsy dope who can't get things straight, follow directions or relate information.


He got the lovable part right. Every time we speak, I find some reason to be amazed with who she is as a person. To avoid sounding patronizing, I no longer mention this, but it is no less true. I think about the time, every time we talk, that I made her cry on the soccer field in front of her friends.


Thankfully, I've also been able to stand up for her, even as a kid. I helped put an end to something horrible she endured. Can you believe I had to seek help for her twice before my mom pulled her head out of... the sand... and did something? I cannot fathom that.


Her grandparents never really cared for me so I wasn't close to them. When each of them passed away, I was at her side, crying because she and her dad (my dad, as far as I'm concerned) were hurting.


Today Shelly called me and started off with what a great sister I've always been to her - the best! - and how she has always been able to count on me. I pictured her friends looking at me in contempt as I laughed again about some flub she'd made out there on that cold field.


Somehow we got onto another of our conversations about who did what first. We were competitive about almost everything. I got breasts first and had the first boyfriend. I got married first and had the first child between us. Odd, but I don't recall who got divorced first; that was a tight race.


She remarried first and was the first to have a second child.


She had the first daughter.


She's getting the first hysterectomy later this month.


She may get the first chemo, but I sure hope that is found to be unnecessary.

The Face In the Mirror

I remember looking at myself in the mirror right before I left the bathroom to go have sex for the first time.  And I remember inspecting my face later to see if I'd changed.  Was it as obvious to everybody else as it was to me?  Were my eyes giving me away?


I'm not sure if I remember the answers now or if what I recall is really just a fantasy.


For the past few days I keep finding my face in the mirror again.  No, not because I'm about to have sex for the first time after Fynn.  We're currently practicing the Bristol Palin method of birth control.  I understand it didn't work so well for her.  Maybe she didn't read the instructions.  (Or maybe she didn't fall asleep so fast?)


No, I am now at the far end of the womanhood spectrum.  Not that far, although I have joked I'll be going straight from maternity to menopause (please let me be joking!).


Friday I'm going in for my laparoscopy tubal sterilization.  I feel like they could have come up with a better name.  What's wrong with ligation, anyway?  Sterilization makes it sound like I'm the black sheep of the family.  Trust me, as weird as I am... this sheep ain't the black one!


It's easy to let myself get distracted, and maybe I should let it go with that.  Because the focus is this:  Today I could have another baby if I chose (okay, yes, and could stay awake... sticklers!).  Tomorrow, too.  But when I get home on Friday afternoon, that will no longer be true.


Do I want to have more children?  No.  Not really.  I know why we wanted to have a third child, and I am so glad we got Fynn out of the deal, but I could have easily stopped after Mad was born.  We were supposed to stop before she was conceived.  She was just very intent on joining us and improving our lives.


Add to that my 10 days early daughter.  Corey and Mad were born the day after and the day before their respective due dates.  It's cool that I got to experience the whole water breaking to kick off labor, but I do suspect Fynn came early because of my age.  After she was born I heard that early water breaking is most common among teen moms and those of "advanced maternal age."  I'm not up for risking anything else.


And last, I'd like to ingest as few chemicals as possible, and that includes birth control.


So I'm not looking for a way out of the surgery.  At this point I'm still not freaking out about it (although I did make a pact with my friend; she'll tell my kids every day that I love them if something happens to me... I'll remind her husband not to let his sister watch their son if something ever happens to her). 


But I do look at myself and wonder if I'll see a change. Will it be as obvious to everybody else as it is to me?  Will my eyes give me away?