Why Having a Second Child Permanently Disables the First Born Part II: The Pregnancy/Birth

My mother made the mistake of telling me she was pregnant when she was only 6 weeks along. At age four, I believed this news to be the most exciting thing since body painting was invented.

And I enjoyed body painting quite at lot.

I promptly decided that I wanted a little sister to play barbies with. I refused to believe there would be any possibility of a boy. This would not have been all that problematic, had I kept this to myself, or at the very least a few close family friends. Silence, however, has never been my strong point.

I told EVERYONE that my mother was pregnant with my new baby sister. Being that my mother was only 6 weeks along and not even showing, this news surprised nearly everyone. The grocery store clerk gave me a free lollypop when I told him. My pre-school teacher congratulated me and sent a card home to my parents. Family friends wanted to know when the baby shower would be. My mother was sent an enormous amount of pink themed gifts before she was 12 weeks pregnant.

Before you are 12 weeks pregnant it is nearly impossible to know the sex of the baby. Yet, I already told the entire world my happy news.

Therefore, when my mother went in for her 12 week ultrasound, she was relieved to discover that she idea carried a girl.

This only furthered stoked the flame of my fantasy of being omnipotent. I pointed out my ability to read the future to anyone who would listen.

As the big day approached, I began to see negative effects of my mother's pregnancy. Most importantly, I could no longer sit properly on her lap during every meal, as I had previously done. (Don't let anyone tell you having a child is not a full time commitment; I refused to eat anywhere but on my mother's lap for four fucking years.)

However, as my mother's pregnancy continued and the due date of my sister approached, my mother's lap became infinitely smaller until it disappeared entirely. From that day on, I was forced to eat independently of my mother, something I neither did silently, well mannered, nor happily.

In fact, much of the damage on our nice, Amish-made dining table can be traced to me pounding silverware on it during this transitionary period.

Once my mother finally made it into her 9th month, things did not settle down. I continued to harass her during meals and questioned everything she asked.

The day her water broke, should have been an exciting and relieving moment. Unfortunately for her, I made sure the moment was entirely unpleasant.

My mother's water broke while she was asleep. I snuck into bed with my parents that night and found this event hysterical. For the next few years, I would gleefully tell anyone who would listen about the time my mother wet the bed one night.

This would come back to bite me.

My sister was eventually born and my father took me to the hospital the following day. I remember this day to be almost as exciting as when I got a dollhouse for my 4th birthday, but not quite. Regardless, my emotions were running wild and I was pleased with myself for accurately predicting the birth of this baby girl.

At the hospital, my mother placed my new baby sister, Bronwyn, in my arms. I was excited beyond belief.

I could not contain my excitement. It bounced around my body, searching desperately for an escape.

Gleeful screams of joy and all around self congratulation could not contain the excitement of the situation.

This was my own fucking little sister after all. My new favorite doll, my new best friend, my new source of entertainment. The excitement of this situation could not be contained...

...and it eventually found it's escape.





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