I Was Born on a Sunday

I'm from the suburbs of Seattle. I grew up on a cul de sac where we played in the woods, rode our bikes in the street, and dug in the dirt. I was born on a Sunday, a healthy baby of normal weight after being two weeks late. I recall someone once making the joke that it's the only Sunday my father ever missed at church, I think it was my mother who said this. Before my mother gave birth, the doctors thought I might have brain damage. I was so late, that I had defecated and they surmised that it might affect me negatively. My mother didn't tell me this until I was a teenager. I certainly don't have brain damage though, which is a relief not only to me, but I'm sure to everyone in my family.

I have a sister 2 1/2 years younger, and a brother 5 1/2 years younger. My sister and I were great friends and enemies. I only wanted to play with her when there was nothing better to do though. She wanted to play with me all the time. She was the annoying little sister of folklore. She was loud, obnoxious, brash, childish, and forward. Qualities I did not contain as a child. I was a quiet, shy child. I could be obnoxious sure, I could be loud on occasion, but for the most part, I was happiest left alone. My brother on the other hand, was babied by everyone. Well, for many years at least. My sister is the favorite, but my brother is the baby - if that makes any sense at all. My brother was shy and quiet for years too. More so than I was. He used to growl at things and people he didn't like. My sister and I loved to play games. One of our favorites was school. We didn't often play with our brother since he was usually too little to understand, so we usually played by ourselves. We would do stupid things like line rocks up and make up scientific names, we'd pretend the garden in the front of the house was an aquarium and that the gravel were fish, and that we could name all the plants and fish. When we did play with our brother, we had to be careful with him. A neighbor kid has broken his arm when he was two, and he contracted a staph infection in it, and then we found out he was deathly allergic to penicillin. He spent months in and out of the Children's hospital. I think the whole arm business made him an entirely grouchy kid. It was hard to play with him because he had a short temper - everything made him mad. I think we played the whole "we're girls" card way too often, but truthfully, now that I look back, he was kind of an angry little kid which made it no fun when we tried to play cars or the lava game. He'd throw tantrums.

From the time I was very little, I remember my parents fought a lot. They also spent a lot of time in their room alone and would tell us not to bother them, and we'd hear a lot of arguing. They would use me as their example for my siblings. I hated this. I didn't find it fair, and to this day I don't find it was fair. It was like they treated me as if I were a role model. I was just a kid. I made mistakes, I wanted to have fun. But, being the way that they were, I was always in trouble for my sister and brother's behavior, even if I had nothing remotely to do with it. It was always my fault that they did things or said things. "If you wouldn't do it, they won't do it," was like a recurring theme. Well, somewhat true. I'll admit I wasn't a perfect kid but I feel that my parents lay too much responsibility on my shoulders from a very young age. Responsibility I didn't want. I didn't choose to be born first, and I didn't choose to be the babysitter - which is what I spend my life trying to run away from. To this day, I STILL get in trouble for this kind of crap. I think though, that my parents' constant warring with each other was taken out on me. They didn't set good examples, and they saw each other not setting good examples, so it was blamed on me. I feel that most of my youth, I was their scapegoat.

We didn't have an entirely happy home life. My mom didn't like the things my dad would say, my dad didn't like my mom's attitude, my sister and I would play nicely until we'd end up ripping each other's hair out and choking each other. I can't really recall a time that things were truly calm. It stresses me out to this day thinking about it. My mom would try to be loving, and sometimes she was really good at it. My dad would try to be supportive, and sometimes he was really good at it. But in the end, we always disappointed them. I can still hear the grief in their voices when they would very disappointedly say my name. My dad still does that.

When I was about 2 or 3, I recall my mother running away from home. We lived in a cute condo and I shared my room with my baby sister. My parents were fighting, and I remember being in my room. I don't know if I remember everything correctly about my mother leaving, but I think she had a suitcase. It was evening time, must have been winter or early spring because it was really dark and was only like 6 or 7 at night. My dad begged my mom not to leave. I mean, begged. In my entire life, I don't recall my father ever being so broken than at that moment. After she had left, I went out to him. He was in the hallway and it was really dark, but I could tell he was crying. My dad is not a crier. In fact, I can count the number of times I have ever seen him cry on one hand - and that included when he drilled a hole through his thumb and had a shot directly in it, and following my mother's death. But, that is beside the point. I asked him why he was crying, and he said something like "Daddy's crying because your mother hurt him."

This set a precedent in my life. Something I carry with me forever. I don't even know if my dad remembers this moment. I do, and I was a baby. It affects me in a way that has changed my interactions with family, with friends, and with personal relationships.