One Wheeler's World

We have a history, the machine and me.  It was there for one of my darkest moments.  And it was there again for one of my happiest.  So, I should have realized that it was impossible for us to have any kind of casual encounter.  Somehow, though, I was foolish enough to think that was exactly what was in store for us.  I didn’t just think it.  I actually believed it.  Believed that, even with all the emotional baggage between us, we would have a brief, meaningless rendezvous.  Oh how very wrong I was. 

As we sat in the waiting room, I commented to James that it was kind of surreal to have an ultrasound looming and not be feeling the least bit nervous about it.  This time, the wand didn’t have the power that it held over me in the past.  There were no fears of “what if,” no dreams waiting in the wings to either be shattered or brought to life with the answers that it would deliver.  This time, it was just a standard piece of medical equipment. 

Finally, it was my turn to be called back.  I followed the MA to the room that I’ve been in dozens of times by now.  She provided me with my little “blanket,” flipped a switch on the machine, and left the room with the promise that Dr P would be in shortly.  For several minutes, it was just the two of us, the machine and me, both waiting patiently for the doctor to make his way to our room.  Slowly, I turned my attention to it.  Watched the screen scroll through a string of codes, as it loaded, then watched the screen turn black with that little white output, indicating that it was ready. 

I listened to the quiet hum, and I thought about our past meetings.  I thought about the day that it revealed the deep, dark secret that my lady bits had been harboring.  I thought about the day that little wand took control of my life and handed it off to it’s counterpart at the Dr W’s office.  I pondered the way that counterpart had done exactly that…controlled my life.  A mighty dictator, it was.  I remembered the anxiety that I would feel leading up to each and every encounter we would have.  Remembered the way that I put all of my hopes into what that little black screen would reveal to be our future.  I smiled as I thought about the day that wand finally gave us the view that we’d wanted…no, needed…so badly to see.  I fought back the tears as I thought about the day that I returned to this very room, victorious.  Eager to show off the new secret that was hiding within my body.  Terrified that another secret would instead be revealed. 

I cleared my throat and swallowed back the tears as Dr P entered the room.   He looked at me quizzically and asked if everything was okay.  I told him it was, then gave the machine a little pat and explained that I was just thinking about our history with one another.  Then I took a deep breath, laid back on the table, and looked away from the screen as I was suddenly consumed with an unfounded fear of what it might reveal.

Yesterday’s date with the machine was a blissfully ordinary, maybe even monotonous one.  There was no need for nerves, or fear, or anxiety.  Certainly no need for tears.  And yet they all managed to bubble up to the surface anyway.  I should have known.  Our reunions will never be ordinary.  Our relationship is far too complicated for that. 

So, I had this absolutely magical, thought-provoking post on the agenda for tonight.  Well, at least in my head it’s pretty magical and thought-provoking.  Alas, I started doing a couple things online while I was waiting for Live Writer to open (this old lap top is getting a little slow in her ripe ol’ age…seriously, she’s almost 5…can you imagine what that is in computer years?!).  The next thing I knew, it was 11:30, and I’d spent an obnoxious amount of time composing a playlist of some good old-school country songs on YouTube.  What can I say?  The new reality show, The Judds, has really rekindled my love for the country music of my childhood.  Eventually, my brain got hung up on said old-school country songs, and I realized that I need to give it the opportunity to ponder other additions to the list (suggestions, anyone?).  It was then that I looked at the clock and thought to myself that I *really* needed to get my butt to bed.  I started closing programs.  And there sat Live Writer, just politely waiting for me in my Task Bar, probably wondering what in the world was taking so damn long.  The problem is that now I’m totally wiped out and already dreading Z waking up in the morning.  It’s guaranteed to be even earlier then usual now that I’ve gone and dared to stay up “late.”  So, the magical, thought-provoking post will have to wait until tomorrow.  Tune in then for all you could want to know (and more!) about my date today with my long-lost friend acquaintance pain in the ass, the vag cam.

For those visiting from ICLW, welcome!   I’m a little late to the party this week.  I’d like to claim to have a good excuse for that, but the truth is that I have spent the last few days totally off on the date.  To the point where I even chuckled a little at “silly Mel” for sending the ICLW reminder out a day early.  Oh, yeah, I’m that kind of scatterbrained these days. :S   I finally realized this morning that I was, in fact, the silly one this time around.

For those who are new to my blog, you can learn a little about me on the cleverly titled About Me page.  The super abbreviated version goes something like this:

• “Not trying, not preventing” for a year+No AF for that year=No baby for the Wheelers
• PCOS+Hostile CM+Low Motility=Will there be a baby for the Wheelers?
• Lots of tests+Metformin+Fertility Meds+Suggested IUI=Maybe baby for the Wheelers
• 2nd IUI+Femara=Baby for the Wheelers!
• Wonderfully ordinary pregnancy+Rapidly passing time=Toddler for the Wheelers

I spent the better part of that day an anxious, jittery mess.  My phone sat directly on my desk, rather than in the little squishy “chair” that was intended to cradle it.  I needed to be certain that I wouldn’t miss the call, something I felt was only a guarantee if the phone sat immediately beside my hand, on the hard surface of the desk, where it would jump around, demanding my attention.  For that one day, I even became one of those people who bring their phones with them into the bathroom.  It never once occurred to me that I could always just call the office back if I did somehow miss their call.  What if the test results changed their mind while the nurse waited for me to dial her back? 

The call came around 2:30 that afternoon.  My hands trembled as I picked opened my phone.  My voice stammered a greeting to the caller.  Somehow, my legs managed to hold me up, as I made my way out to the hallway, where I hoped for a brief moment of privacy.  My heart lurched into my throat as I heard those ten words.  The most amazing words a would-be-mother could ever hope to hear: “I get to be the first to tell you congratulations!” 

Two years later, the emotions of that moment are still fresh in my mind.  Two years later, as I stare at my sweet little boy, I remember the sense of peace that came over me as I closed my phone and attempted to shake out the excitement before returning to my desk.  Our prayers were being answered. 

4/8/2009: Dare I?
“Yet I find myself wanting to freeze time, locked in this moment.  Before test results.  Feeling the hope for what could be, the joy of thinking that maybe, just maybe, our dream is about to come true.”

Two years ago tonight, I was sitting in limbo, waiting for the next morning to roll around so that I could finally go in for my Beta.  While the fate of our would-be-baby hung in the air, waiting for my date with a needle for the opportunity to reveal itself, it was my own fate that felt dangerously uncertain.  A battle raged within me.

Two years ago tonight, I was fighting against the incredibly powerful emotion that had started to take its hold on me again.  HOPE.  It had come to be a four-letter word in my mind.  A nasty, hateful emotion that would only lead to certain devastation.  And yet, there it was.  Creeping back into my head.  After making it through nearly an entire cycle without even a small cameo appearance, it once again held the starring roll in my every thought.  It dared me to try to fight it.  Taunted me.  And, as with each cycle before, I wasn’t strong enough to resist.  I gave in and allowed it to linger.  Slowly, it made its way from my thoughts down into my heart and then deep into my soul.  That evening, I sat down at my computer and confessed my weakness to all of those who would come upon my blog.

Two years ago tonight, I dared to admit to the blogosphere that I was pretty sure that I just might be pregnant.  Not because of any symptoms.  Oh, sure, there were a few little things that I mentioned in that post that would later prove themselves to have been physical signs of what was about to be my reality.  But that had little to do with my admission.  Rather, I was suckered into believing it just might be true based solely on a feeling.  A little indescribable “something” that was determined to make me believe.  The kind of thing that would typically have me calling “poppycock” while rolling my eyes, instead sent me to bed with visions of all-things-baby dancing through my head.

Two years ago tonight, I lay wide-awake next to my sleeping husband, praying harder than I have ever prayed in my life.  I made promises about the type of mother that I would be.  I presented my case, pointed out the steps that we’d already taken to PROVE how deserving we were.  I pleaded for the chance to make my husband the amazing father that I knew he was destined to be.  And then I begged for the strength to pick up the pieces and put myself back together if it turned out I was wrong.

“No matter where we go from here, I want to make sure that I never forget this.  I want to remember what the good felt like, while I was feeling it.  So, I need to put it here, for posterity, for my own memories.”

Two years ago tonight, I had no idea how vividly I would be able to recall every single moment of the rollercoaster ride that we once lived on.  Even now as I write this, the tears stream down my face.  The memory of all the fears, the hurt, the desperate need to find a way to brace myself for another devastating letdown, and the even more desperate need to rely on that little four-letter word for the strength to move forward hasn’t faded even a little over the past two years.  Neither has the memory of drifting off to sleep that night, not just hoping, but truly believing that our dream was about to come true.

It all started with a little hand-me-down gift from my mom.  I was eight years old, and she’d just gotten a new camera.  When I asked if I could have the old one, she happily handed it to me.  That day, I became the proud owner of a 110 film camera.  And I was immediately bitten by the bug.  I loved that camera.  I toted it with me nearly everywhere we went.  Most of the time, it didn’t have any film in it, but that did little to slow me down.  I spent countless hours taking “pictures” of any person or item that I could find to get in front of my viewfinder.  I loved the sense of creativity that I felt each time I pushed the shutter release button and then slid the lever at the back to advance the “film.” 

My love for photography has only deepened over the years.  As a teenager, I started to dabble with the idea of someday making a living with my camera.  As time went on, that idea bloomed into a full-fledged dream for the future.  A dream that I kept almost totally to myself.  I mentioned it once, to my guidance counselor in high school.  And I will never forgot his words of advice: “It’s good to have things that we are passionate about, and photography is a wonderful, creative hobby to pursue.  But let’s think more practically about college and career choices for now.”  In that moment, my fears that my dream was unrealistic and unworthy of pursuing were seemingly confirmed.  For years, I battled within myself, trying desperately to just want a “normal” college education followed by a “real” career.  I would sometimes allow myself to daydream about something different, but I never allowed myself to believe that my dream could actually become a reality. 

Then, I met James.  For the first time, I allowed myself to truly open up to someone, including sharing with him my passion.  Over time, he embraced my love for photography, even coming to enjoy it himself.  And he has encouraged me from the very beginning to follow my dreams.  Amidst all of the wonderfully fantastic things about my husband is his unwavering belief in me and all that I do.  He took that seed that was planted so many years ago, and he has nurtured and cared for it.  With him by my side, I’ve slowly started to pursue my dream over the past few years.  I did some senior portraits for the daughters of some friends, took some family portraits for various friends, and even shot a couple of weddings. 

Still, though, I haven’t allowed myself to fully let go of all that is holding me back from chasing my dream.  Rather, I’ve been standing on my tip-toes, reaching up, up, up, trying to grab hold, while still having my feet at least somewhat touching the ground.  The thing is, once I was in a place in my life where I felt “safe” to pursue my dream, I realized how absolutely and completely terrifying doing so is going to be.  Like probably everyone who has ever set out to achieve something they’ve yearned so deeply for, I feel frozen by my fear of failure.  But more than that, I’m desperately afraid of losing this dream.  This has been the little happy place deep inside of myself for over two decades.  And I’m so afraid of reality coming in and robbing me of that. 

Still, though, I’ve decided to face my fears and to chase after my dream at high speed.  I know that it may won’t be easy, and I know that there will be times when I will have to fight hard to not allow those worries to hold me back.  But I am ready to do it.  Because the one thing I fear more than failing…more than losing my dream…is teaching my son that his dreams don’t deserve a fighting chance to come to reality.  And the opportunity to prove themselves even more amazing than anything he ever imagined. 

And so, I have officially embarked on establishing my photography business.  This actually has been the cause for much of my absence from here recently.  I’ve been spending all of my time while Zachary naps (and I’m not exaggerating much when I say all…you should see the disaster zone that is my house!) on building my web site, researching marketing tactics, and various other pieces of this big, big puzzle. 

With each step I take, my fears grow.  But so does my excitement and hopefulness!

“All of our dreams can come true — if we have the courage to pursue them.”
Walt Disney

It is time, again, for International Comment Leaving Week.  That means that it is time, again, for me to ponder the fact that it’s already been a month since the last time.  And it’s time for a brief intro.  So, here goes:

My name is Aramelle.  I am 31 years old and live in Reno, NV with my husband (James), son (Zachary, 15mos), and two annoying cats (Reggie and Trina). 

Our TTC journey was documented on another blog, which has since become devoted to blogging about all-things-Zachary.  The abbreviated version goes something like this:  I was diagnosed with PCOS in 2008.  After a couple unsuccessful attempts at ovulation via Clomid, my OB/GYN (Dr P…the most amazing doctor ever and a hero of this story) referred us to a RE (Dr W…another amazing doctor and the other hero of this story) in August 2008.  Further testing revealed more issues on top of the PCOS, and Dr W recommended that we jump straight into IUI.  We conceived on our second IUI cycle, and our son was born in December 2009 after a blissfully ordinary pregnancy. 

I’m currently on a journey of self-discovery via my blog.  I actually signed up for the NaBloPoMo for the first time, hoping it would be a good motivator to devote a few minutes each day to this journey.  Clearly, NaBloPoMo has been an epic fail here at One Wheeler’s World.  But I do still continue my journey.  We’re just, apparently, taking the longer route to get there. 

Well, it took longer than I anticipated for me to finally get back to posting, but here I finally am.  Tonight, we head back to the topic of Roles…

MOTHER: noun
Pronunciation: ˈmə-thər
Definition:
1a : a female parent b (1) : a woman in authority; specifically : the superior of a religious community of women (2) : an old or elderly woman

2: source, origin

3: maternal tenderness or affection

4[short for motherfucker] sometimes vulgar : motherfucker

5: something that is an extreme or ultimate example of its kind especially in terms of scale

At this exact moment 15 months ago, I was anxiously tossing and turning in bed, attempting to find a position that would be comfortable, if even for just five minutes.  I was trying desperately to NOT think about the fact that I was going to be heading off to the hospital in just a few short hours to begin the process of evicting the little man who’d made a cozy home out of my innards for the past 40 weeks.  I was excited for the moment that I would hold my son in my arms.  And I was absolutely and completely clueless as to just how much my life was about to change.

Over the several months leading up to that night, I’d slowly started to adopt the title of Momma.  I’d already come to love my child with an intensity that I never knew was possible.  Yet, I would soon discover that all the love I’d built up for my boy was miniscule compared to what my heart would hold for him when my arms held him tight.  I didn’t know how amazing parenthood would be until it became my reality.  More so, I didn’t know how much it would change every single aspect of my life.

There are a great assortment of ways in which life is different now.  Some are little changes, maybe even inconveniences, like adapting to almost never eating a meal while it’s still warm…you can forget about hot.  And some are so monumental that they don’t just change your life…they change the person that you will be from this point forward.  For me, the most monumental change has come from the way that my son makes me see the world.  The picture of what life is has been completely redrawn for me.  When I look back on my past, I see it through a new set of eyes.  And when I plan for the future, I do so with a new perspective on what I want my life to be all about.

I suppose it’s natural to spend a lot of time reflecting on your own childhood when you’re about to embark on the journey of parenting.  I’ve spent a great amount of time thinking about the lessons of my childhood, the role models (both good and bad) that were present while I was growing up, and the way that I want those lessons and those people to help me to create my own special recipe for Momma. 

When I sit and think hard about those things, I must admit that I’m a bit surprised by what I take away from them.  Surprised by the way that I can think of my parents and see a lot of really wonderful things to pull from them as I parent my own child.  Yes, there are a lot of examples there to be had for the kind of parent that I don’t want to be…will never be…to Zachary.  And I will freely admit that there are many times that those examples lead me and strongly define the type of mother that I am.  But there are still a lot of positives, too.  Like the way that my mom has never once, in all of my memories, left me for even a couple of minutes without an “I Love You.”  Or the way that she has always been there to cheer me on in whatever it is that I choose to pursue in life.  The fact that she didn’t just want me to do well, she actually believed in me every step of the way and helped me to believe in myself.  Even now, as I attempt to turn life-long dreams into real life success, she tells me frequently that she knows I can do whatever I put my mind to.  And my father, even with his faults, even considering the fact that we no longer speak, has taught me lessons that I hope to instill in my own child as he grows.  Lessons about staying true to your beliefs and never backing down from your convictions.  About never compromising who you are, regardless of the supposed pay-offs. 

I think about the lessons that I learned from my grandparents.  One grandmother a mean, hurtful woman who first taught me what it was to not feel good enough.  The other, a loving woman who, along with my Papa, was my constant soft place to fall.  And there are aunts, uncles, and cousins.  The two sides of my family, as drastically different as those two grandmothers.  And I know that I will pull from each and every one of those family members bits and pieces of the lessons that I will work to teach my own child.  I will draw from those lessons and those people with every decision that I make. 

Life’s decisions have changed drastically, as well.  It’s stunning to me how, with the birth of a child, it seems like everything got flipped upside down.  The simplest of decisions now seem to cause me an incredible amount of worry and concern.  The small, everyday things that make up ordinary life…well, they just don’t seem so small and everyday anymore.  Suddenly, what we’re having for dinner seems like a significant aspect to my day, now that I’m focusing on teaching Zachary healthy eating habits.  Yet, I find that making incredibly difficult decisions is a lot less difficult when it’s his welfare that I’m looking out for.  Where I may have tolerated certain circumstances or behaviors in the past, regardless of how toxic they were for me or how much pain they caused, I am able to take a pretty no-nonsense approach to them now.  That’s not to say that making these decisions doesn’t still hurt me.  But I can easily get over that when I know that the decision that I’m making is in the best interest of my child. 

Because, really, that’s all it’s about for me now.  From the moment my husband placed that little boy in my arms, I knew that he was the reason I was put on this planet.  And I have come to understand that all of the moments of my past, even the crappy stuff…maybe even especially the crappy stuff…have served a purpose that I could never have imagined as I lived them.  They have come together to make me the momma that I am today.  And, frankly, I’m a damn good momma, if I do say so myself. 

The greatest role I will ever play is that of Mother to that sweet little soul.  I live and breathe him.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”
Elizabeth Stone

FAIL: verb
Pronunciation: ˈfāl
Definition:

intransitive verb
1a : to lose strength : weaken  b : to fade or die away  c : to stop functioning normally

2a : to fall short b : to be or become absent or inadequate  c : to be unsuccessful ; specifically : to be unsuccessful in achieving a passing grade  d : to become bankrupt or insolvent

transitive verb
1a : to disappoint the expectations or trust of  b: to miss performing an expected service or function for
2: to be deficient in : lack
3: to leave undone : neglect
4a : to be unsuccessful in passing  b : to grade (as a student) as not passing

Zachary says:
Blogging is EASY, Momma.  I don’t know what you’re problem is!

                             Look, it’s fun, too!                                                           Now, YOU do it!!! 
  

Clearly, I haven’t been doing well following through with NaBloPoMo.  Things have been chaotic around here, with some crap going on with my family.  And as much as I told myself that I wasn’t going to allow it to stop me from doing this challenge…well, I ended up doing exactly that.  To some, it might not seem like all that big of a deal.  It is, after all, “just a blog,” in the eyes of many.  But this is an important step that I’m taking.  Not necessarily the daily posting, but the mission I’ve set out on to try to work through so many different things.  So, I am going to re-commit myself to this challenge.  Because this is a time when I NEED to make a conscious decision to be making time for myself and to not fall back into the same  poisonous habits of the past of letting my own needs fall on my list of priorities while taking care of others who should be taking care of themselves. 

I’ve missed a few days, but tomorrow I will resume the path that I had started on this journey of exploring my life and myself.  And I’m going to try still end the month with 31 posts. 

WIFE: noun
Pronunciation: ˈwīf
Definition:
1a dialect : woman b : a woman acting in a specified capacity —used in combination

2: a female partner in a marriage

I’ve played the role of wife twice in the past decade.  The first time that I made my way down the aisle, I was 21 years old and heading into a marriage that I realize now I knew from day one wasn’t going to work.  That marriage lasted less than two years.  Well, legally, it lasted a little over 2.5, but we separated just before our second anniversary.  There are a lot of nasty, horrible stories I could tell about that marriage, but I won’t…at least not today.  The cliff notes version includes two people with absolutely nothing in common, a drug problem, and a tendency for violence.  I admit that I tend to “blame” the ending of that marriage on him.  But tonight isn’t about him.  It’s not really even about that marriage.  Tonight is about me.  My role as a wife.  And the truth is, I was an absolutely terrible wife.  No matter how nicely he asked or how important he told me it was to him, I was never willing to “give” and join him in any of the things that he loved to do.  The one time that I did give in and allow him to “drag me” out for ice fishing, I spent basically the entire time bitching about how horrible it was.  The thing is, even before he started using again, before the fights could have taken place in a ring of some sort, before any of the crap that started to define the relationship as “toxic,” before any of that, I really didn’t like him.  I didn’t want to spend my time with him.  I didn’t care about being his partner, his “better half,” or friend. 

Those two years were essentially Hell on Earth for me.  But for all of the pain of those years, I am eternally grateful for that marriage.  I am thankful for that horrible, angry man.  I am appreciative for every single day of heartache.  Because without all of that bad, I likely wouldn’t even have met James.  Without all of that bad, I might take for granted just how absolutely amazing my husband is and how lucky I am to have him.  Without all of that bad, I wouldn’t be the wife that I am today.  And I am a GOOD wife.  I’m not perfect, by any means.  But I make my husband my priority.  I make our marriage the single most important thing in my life.  Because I don’t just love him.  He isn’t just my best friend.  I don’t just want to spend my life with him.  I need him by my side.  The idea of a future without him in it makes me physically ache. 

So, I work hard to be the best wife that I can be.  I make a point of embracing his interests, even when they may not be mine.  In doing this, I’ve actually discovered new interests of my own (who knew that I could not only understand but enjoy football?!?).  I share myself with him entirely.  No matter how terribly uncomfortable it can be for me (and it can be very uncomfortable, even after all these years), I make myself vulnerable to him.  I don’t hold any parts of myself back.  He gets all of me…my hopes, my dreams, my fears, my innermost thoughts. 

In working to be a better wife to him, I have learned to be a better ME.  I have learned to trust that those who truly love you will not let you down.  I have learned that sometimes it is best to stop trying to control everything and to just let life happen.  I have learned to take myself a little less seriously.  And, (as he would probably tell you) most importantly, I have learned that the Nevada Wolf Pack, the San Francisco 49ers, and the Yankees reign supreme, and UNLV, Boise State, the Oakland Raiders, and the Boston Red Sox are a bunch of losers.

“Don’t marry the person you think you can live with; marry only the individual you think you can’t live without.”
James C. Dobson

SISTER: noun
Pronunciation: ˈsis-tər
Definition:
1: a female who has one or both parents in common with another

2often capitalized a : a member of a women’s religious order (as of nuns or deaconesses); especially : one of a Roman Catholic congregation under simple vows b : a girl or woman who is a member of a Christian church

3a : a girl or woman regarded as a comrade b : a girl or woman who shares with another a common national or racial origin; especially : a black girl or woman

4: one that is closely similar to or associated with another <sister cities>

5 chiefly British : nurse

6a : girl, woman b : person —usually used in the phrase weak sister

7: a member of a sorority

I am the only child that exists from the union between my mother and father.  The oldest child for each of them.  Both went on to have additional children.  My father and step-mother have three children together.  A son and two daughters…a brother and two sisters for me.  And my mom has a son, giving me another brother.  Technically, they’re all half-siblings.  That’s a technicality that would come to define our relationships.

I’m close in age to my siblings on my dad’s side.  My brother came just 13 months after I was born, and there are only 5 years between myself and my youngest sister.  That is where the closeness begins and ends.  I’ve never felt like I “fit” with my dad’s other children.  When we were kids, we didn’t get along.  At all.  We rarely saw each other, and we spent most of our time avoiding each other when we were together.  I was different from them in pretty much every way.  We lived drastically different lives, leaving us with little in common.  My father used to insist emphatically that there was no difference between the four of us…we were all his children and that where it began and ended.  All three of these siblings referred to me as their half-sister.  I HATED being called their half-sister.  It felt like a deliberate attempt to remind me that I wasn’t one of them.  That, no matter how hard I tried, we would never be the same. 

As a child, I clung to a desire to feel welcomed by my first three siblings.  As an adult, I spent years thinking that if I just acted like a “good  big sister” the differences between us didn’t need to matter anymore.  I yearned for the poetic sisterly relationship that greeting cards across the globe proclaim exists between sisters.  Shortly after I walked away from the attempts to mend my relationship with my dad, I also closed the door to the idea that I’d ever find that relationship with them. 

My youngest brother, my mom’s son, is 8 years younger than me.  We’ve spent our entire lives in completely different stages of life, yet we have always been incredibly close.  He, too, is my half-brother.  But there is nothing “half” about us.   We love one another fully and completely.  We got each other through incredibly dark and difficult days.  As a child, I was often left responsible for caring for him.  In many ways, he is more like a child to me than a brother.  For all the times that he has relied on me to be his caregiver, I too have leaned on him for strength. 

He’s a young man now, newly married and recently discharged from the Army.  He will, however, forever be my baby brother.  He is the source of much pride for me.  He makes me realize that there should be a lot more thought given within the greeting card industry to the beauty that is a sister/brother relationship.

“Our siblings.  They resemble us just enough to make all their differences confusing, and no matter what we choose to make of this, we are cast in relation to them our whole lives long.”

Susan Scarf Merrell