My brother Dane was traveling when we told people we were pregnant, so I had to text message him the news. To which he replied, “No way! How long have you been prego? Ahh, that’s exciting as sh-t [censored to retain PG content rating] congrats!!” When we found out the sex, I also had to text him. To which he replied, “Yay! I get to be an uncle! :)” From the number of exclamation points and emoticons in these text messages I assumed he was pretty stoked about the baby, but this weekend was the first time he actually saw me pregnant. And I wish wish wish I had an emoticon face that matched his expression when he walked into the room where I was sleeping and took a hard look at my rounded belly.
“WHOA! That’s totally weird. Even weirder because… well… it’s YOU!”
He seriously stood there staring at my belly for five minutes straight without blinking. It was almost as if he had seen a chia pet the size of a cantaloupe climbing out of my belly button doing the Macarena.
Since it was time for my morning rib mutilation – I asked him if he wanted to feel his nephew’s punching skills. He walked over to the bed and put his hand on my side – not two seconds later pulled it back as if he’d just touched a hot poker – “Yikes! That’s HIM?” He put his hand out again to feel him torture me a little longer, then smiled, said it was cool, and headed off to play his Xbox.
Being over six years apart, it was often hard for my brother and I to connect. I always wished for an older brother. I wanted someone who would beat up my boyfriends and drive me to school. I wanted someone to explain to me in layman's terms what “69” was before I embarrassed myself in my eighth grade health class or someone besides an obese driving instructor to show me how to parallel park. I think it’s human nature to want for what you don’t have – curly hair, perfect teeth, five million dollars – but never what is right in front of your face.
When Dane was a toddler he crashed my 8th birthday sleepover in his zip-up footed romper – so I paid him back when he was five by convincing him he was adopted from China because his eyes were more slanted than the rest of us. He is more adventurous than my pinky finger and uses more hair products than me and my mom combined. We wear the same shirt size and we have the same smile. He thinks I’m a genius and a hypochondriac. He’s the only person in our family that has more dents in his car than I do. His favorite color growing up was orange (and sometimes pink) and he annoyed me so bad that one time I wiped the inside of the toilet bowl with his tooth brush and made him use it. In 1995, he insisted on waking up EVERY MORNING to Insane Clown Posse blaring on his stereo – I will hate that band until the end of time because of it. He is the most laid back, neutral person I know and he pukes at the very mention of lemon meringue pie. He calls me for job and financial advice but is scared to introduce me to his girlfriends. Because of him my husband has gotten a tiny glimpse of what it is like to have a sibling. And before I left this weekend he said,
Hey Tam, I’m glad it’s a boy. I really wanted a nephew.
I have a feeling this baby can’t wait to meet his Uncle Dane – maybe they will have the same kind-hearted spirit or hatred for citrus-filled pie. This weekend I thought about how I was growing inside me a little boy who is destined to be a big brother one day – and then I thought about this adventurous guy standing before me who has perfected the art of being the youngest.
