I remember very clearly the day my little brother was born. It was a weekend. July 12th. 1993. The day my family gained the most thoughtful, silly, intense, hilarious, bright, sensitive, wisecracking, politically-minded entertainer…really, an incredible combination of every personality trait.
I was 8 years old, and couldn’t wait to be a big sister (once I warmed up to the idea of not being the baby any more…). That morning, I remember eating a cream-filled donut with chocolate frosting on the top. Those are still my favorites. We went to the hospital, and waited…and waited…and finally, at 12:08 p.m. (trust me on this one. I’ve got it right), Jacob was born. Only at that time, he didn’t have a name. He didn’t have a name for a few days, actually. My first glimpse at his little life was when they flung the delivery room door open and threw him on a scale, screaming with all of his little red-bodied might. “Nine pounds, four ounces!” the nurse yelled.
I love these next two…proof that he’s still a kid, at least on the inside:
It’s hard to believe that was 15 years ago. Hard to believe that he’s old enough to pass driver’s ed, go to prom, act in the high school play…it’s crazy how time flies. Jacob, you’re the best. Our lives would be boring without you.