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W (the good one) circa 1973

My little brother — okay, my younger brother — is going to be an old man tomorrow: thirty years old. Since he only reads this site on weekdays, I’ve decided to put up his birthday post today. (W, if you feel like it, you can thank me in the comments for not scanning in the bare butt photo of you I have in my possession.)

I don’t have a date for this photo, but I think it must be very soon after my brother came home. He was an enormous baby, over nine pounds. (Notice that I am carefully holding my brother, and not threatening to choke him.)

Mom told me once that when she brought him home I watched him for awhile, then I said that he didn’t do much, he didn’t even talk. So I proceeded to ignore him until he could do something interesting. I don’t remember this; I think I was too little, but it does sound like me. What I do remember is giving him the chicken pox when he was very small. I had maybe five or six spots, but he got them on his eyelids, in his hair, up his nose. He was a poor itchy, but still boring little guy.

When we were kids Mom kept us from fighting over something we had to share, like a toll house square, by having one of us cut it in half and the other one of us getting first pick of the pieces. To this day, when I cut something in half, I offer it to the other person to choose a piece first. It drives L crazy, she says she doesn’t think I’m trying to cheat her. I tell her you never saw two kids divide anything with such fanatical precision as me and brother did.

Turning thirty is a dividing line of sorts, that is probably why people get weird about it.

My last birthday wasn’t a numerical milestone, but it was significant, being the first birthday when Mom didn’t — couldn’t — call to wish me Happy Birthday. I was aware of missing her on that day, and some days are harder than others like that with grief. W will probably be aware of that this weekend too.

I hope he also discovers thirty is just a number, it doesn’t have to mean anything bad. I remember Mom showing me a photo of him, taken on her back deck by the pool, probably the summer or two before she died. “I saw this and I thought, he’s a man,” she said, he was grown. W, you are a man, and a good man. So now you’ll be a man in his thirties. So what? You’ve been grown for a long time now.

Happy birthday, little brother.

I will thank you for not posting that picture - I don’t need any more naked photos of me on the internet (hah!) I like the one you chose instead - I was a big fat baby, wasn’t I? Also thank you for the post - I haven’t been all that excited about The Big 3-O and I have of course been thinking of Mom, so I appreciate your words - but no fair making me tear up at work.

Ah, but since when have big sisters played fair?

I love you.