I didn’t want my brother. That sounds kinda harsh, but it’s the truth. I was almost ten when he was born, my sister was almost five, and I felt like our family had plenty of people in it already. I’m not sure why I felt that way, but I was none too enthusiastic about his imminent arrival.
I was invested enough in the idea of him that I tortured my mom in her search for a name for him. She knew his middle name would be Michael, after her youngest brother, but we battled for months over whether his first name would be John (her choice) or David (mine). John was a fine name in the abstract, but I was adamant that “John Michael” sounded like a male model and that was simply unacceptable. In the end, she gave in and I got to pick his name. We all agree now that it was the right call. (You’re welcome.)
He was born on December 11, 1992, at 10:11 am. My grandma woke me up for school that morning with the news that my dad had taken my mom to the hospital to have him. I mostly remember being apathetic about this news, but I must have still been in my feelings about it because when we went to the hospital later that day to see him, I acted like a little asshole and refused to even look at him. There are pictures of me looking away, determinedly avoiding him, while everyone else checked out the new baby.
That all changed the next day. My dad took my sister and me to see him, and when we got there my mom was in surgery having her tubes tied. The nurse reluctantly agreed to bring David from the nursery for us but only for a little while unless my mom got back quickly. He came out to us and was crying, so I held him and sang all the Christmas carols I had been singing in chorus classes, and the little shit stopped crying. He just stared up at me with his big blue eyes and laid there enrapt while I sang to him. My heart absolutely melted, and I fell in love.
That was it for me and my resistance to my baby brother. I was head over heels from that moment on, and he became MY baby. My mom was completing her fellowship to become a perinatologist, so she was always busy, and I took over the role as his substitute mom. My dad was home with him during the day, but I did all the baby stuff whenever I could. I gave baths and changed diapers and put on footsie pajamas and loved all over him. We all did that last part. My mom used to say, “He’s going to think that when he cries women come running,” because that’s what happened in our house. He would make the slightest noise of discomfort, and my mom, sister, and I would all come running, yelling, “David!” as we rushed to remedy whatever was bothering him.
He was never short of admirers. Which made it all the more ridiculous when my grandma suggested that he may not be a great eater – which he certainly wasn’t – because he “didn’t feel loved” enough. I’m not sure there was ever a more loved kid than David, and I still hold that he deserved it. I might be a bit biased in that perspective, as he was essentially my first kid and I doted on him beyond all reason. He was adorable to me in return too. He had a favorite “blankie” that he held onto until after he started kindergarten, and he was ridiculously attached to it. When it took its inevitable beating, he cried as if he had lost an arm whenever it got a little tear. Still, I came back from a weeks-long vacation to a wrapped present from a 4-year-old Davey, containing a piece of his blankie just for me. Even as a salty teenager, it made me tear up. When I would come home from college, he would be attached to me, and when I set off on my return trip, he would sit with his “Diny” (a dinosaur puppet that he took everywhere with him) and cry silently as I drove off.
He is now 25 years old and still my baby as far as I’m concerned. The poor color-blind kid will occasionally text me to ask me what matches, and I gladly offer my opinion. Granted, these instances have gotten fewer and farther between, and we have butted heads a number of times as we have both gotten older, but I hope he still knows how much I treasure him and how proud I am of the man he’s become. He has a lovely long-term girlfriend, and I frequently resist the urge to tell her, “You’re welcome,” because I feel like I have a stake in the kind of person he now is. He’s an overly competitive pain in the ass who makes every game of Monopoly a board-flipping nightmare, but he is also such a perfect dude – gorgeous, brilliant, compassionate, considerate – that I can’t help but hate him a little bit, and be amazed by him as well. And by the fabulous job that I have done in raising him. Feel free to thank me when you see me, but congratulate me as well – I still think I’m the lucky one in this deal.
