My brother – well, his wife, really, but he was there – had a baby on Monday. This is the first baby for them, and the first baby in our family (my stepdaughter joined the family at age 11, and we love her, but we never had to wipe her butt or swaddle her.) My brother posted a picture of him and his son on Instagram, with the following caption: “Commence Phase Two of Operation “Life”
And how. Today is my brother’s 35 birthday, and I think of him, at home with his wife and baby, figuring out this new phase, and I can’t wait to see where it takes them. Happy Birthday, Mikie, and welcome to the world, Hunter. I can’t wait to watch you guys grow up together.
But enough about them, let’s talk about me: I had thought – and I am sure many people had thought – that it would be hard for me to see my brother’s new baby so soon after my miscarriage. The entire drive up to meet them at the hospital, a mere hour after Hunter was born, I actually found myself a scared and apprehensive. I was worried that the worst parts of myself – my tendency towards little sister jealousy, my ability to feel decadently and paralyzingly sorry for myself – would ruin the moment and turn something joyous into something sad.
Once there that fear seemed amazingly narcissistic and stupid. What I felt when I saw my brother and my sister in law with their new son was extreme happiness for two of my very best friends. And happiness for me, too, because I get to know this little dude for his entire life, and as someone who has some really amazing aunts, I feel very lucky to get to start that relationship. So I guess what I’m saying is that it only took 31 years for me to figure out that not every major life event is viewable through the lens of my issues; some things are just objectively wonderful.