Two years and some months after I entered my parents’ lives, they decided to adopt another baby. I remember the day we went to pick him up from the airport – I was sitting at my tea set and my mother scooped me up and said, “When we come back here, you’ll have a brother.”. It was snowing outside and I remember being excited that I would finally have someone to watch Care Bears with and play dress up.
It wasn’t long before Taylor and I began fighting – he was always stealing my toys or eating my Cheerios. This little bucket of drool was always slobbering over my Barbies and generally fucking my shit up.
“Lauren,” my mother would begin, “Taylor is just a baby. You need to be a good big sister and share.”
So, like any good American, I smiled, nodded and thought to myself, Fuck that noise. I was here first.
I was five and Taylor was going on three – he was talking in full sentences and my mother was jazzed because he knew his ABC’s…whatever man – talk to me when he can figure out how to braid hair and then I’ll be impressed.
Oh Taylor…he was so freakin perfect with his cute baby face doing cute baby things. I loathed him. And so, I hatched an evil plan that would put me back in my rightful place as number one favorite child.
I executed my plan on a Saturday so that both parents could bear witness. My mother was making lunch, my dad attached himself to the couch watching TV and my stupid brother just sitting on the ground playing with some stupid toy. I got up, took the purple crayon from my craft box and drew on the wall. I ran back to Taylor, shoved the crayon in his hand and screamed, “Look!”
My mother and father locked eyes and had a brief discussion regarding Taylor’s crime _ I imagined that my criminal unveiling would be rewarded with treats and candy. But I was sorely mistaken…