My nephew Oliver finally (hooray!) showed his face Wednesday night around 8. After staying in the womb 11 days past 40 weeks, he flew out in 2 hours of labor ... so quickly he was within minutes of being born in the hospital elevator.
My sister's Facebook page proclaims that, at 9 lbs 7 oz, Oliver is "healthy, chunky and cute!" (Which I'll confirm or deny upon receiving pictures ... hint, hint ...)
Missy called me at work this morning to share all the gladdening and gory particulars of her Wednesday. It was only as we matter-of-factly discussed searing pain and dilation and post-birth clean-up that I fathomed the craziness of my sister having this pain, having this joy, helping create this life.
My sister. Surreal.
The girl once short enough to be mistaken for my twin before she got way, way taller. Who shared a bedroom with me for 16 years. Dance classes for 12 of those. Joined me in, way too often, inhaling peanut butter from a jar and Pepsi while watching "Brady Bunch" reruns in the basement, belching relentlessly. Helped me choreograph jazz routines in front of the dresser mirror. French-braided my hair before I could figure out how to do it myself. Invented the world's most calorie-laden mashed potato recipe that no one in the family dares not make. Always sang any song she tried more convincingly than anyone else in the room.
Now, mother of two sons, one of who can call out "Hi, Aunt Karin!" when picking up the phone. And no doubt she and Chad will encourage his younger brother to also do so, sooner than I can probably imagine. So when they're growing up in Minnesota, 1400 miles away, we get to know each other the best we're all capable of.
Good work, Miss.