Twenty years ago today, a job was thrust upon me for which I was not even the least bit qualified. (After all, I wasn’t even three years old) I was just minding my own only-child business, enjoying the complete and undivided attention from my parents and the cat, when I was suddenly being led into a bright hospital room where a little, wriggling bundle of paleness was thrust into my unsuspecting arms. And from that moment (actually the first distinct memory that I have), I was a sister.
For those of you who don’t know, sisterhood has its ups and downs. Actually, it’s pretty much all ups and downs; there’s very little middle ground between sisters. You’re either using clothing as weapons against each other in the guest bedroom of your grandparents’ house or you’re sharing popcorn and crying over the beautiful sisterly love story that is Frozen. That’s just how it goes.
Sisterhood also seems to progress in stages. I personally have enjoyed every one, from the “you’re younger than me therefore I will boss you around” stage to the “you’re younger than me therefore leave me alone” stage to the “you’re younger than me therefore let me shape you in my image” stage. But I think my favorite part of sisterhood has only just begun: that point in life when you realize that having a sister is really just another word for having an always best friend… who happens to be related to you by blood and doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.
Happy birthday, Parker, and congrats on making it to twenty! (I’m taking at least half the credit.) I know that three-year-old me asked Mom and Dad to take you back to the hospital, but twenty-two-year-old me is glad they didn’t. Here’s to scores more scores and recreating this oh-so-attractive model shot from Disney at the wedding! Love you, Pahka.