She wouldn't play with me unless she had to, and she didn't share her friends with me either (unless I tagged along back far enough so she couldn't do anything about it). She and her friend sometimes let me do things with them...like the time they let me play with them on the swing set but the glider only accommodated 2 so they allowed me to lie down under the glider but I freaked out and sat up and was nearly decapitated. She let me have a turn being locked in the trunk of the old Chevy once. Right about the time I got locked in was when mom showed up looking for me. I heard their voices fading away and thought I was doomed, so I hollered and I think we both got beat for that one.

I was/am a classic middle child. Nothing was/is fair, nothing was/is enough, nothing was/is soon enough. No one had it as badly as I did, and no one understood. Least of all my big sister. She was a classic first child.

She was quiet. She was afraid to explore the world. She sought safety and comfort in her books. She stayed out of the sun and she stayed away from makeup and loud music and black lights and boys. She never rebelled, at least, not out loud. I know now that there were times in her life that she wanted to disappear, and times that she was afraid that she had. I remember once finding a letter she wrote to Peter Noone of the Herman's Hermits. In it, she languished about how small and insignificant she was. How she loved him so much and she knew that he was completely unaware that she even existed. I could never talk to her about that, because I was too worried about ratting myself out for reading her diary.

We were so opposite, they way most text-book 1st and 2nd children are. There was no way that the peace keeper could understand my rebel ways. No way that the sensible one could understand my dreams. No way the safe one could understand my need to experiment. No way the rule keeper could understand my pushing every limit.

I thought it would be so great when this person who had no clue about me, even though we shared a room and sometimes a bed for 16 years, left for college. I would finally have my own room. My own space. My own dresser and closet. I never expected it would be so hard to stop hugging her good-bye. I never expected to feel the punch in my stomach when the car pulled away that morning. I never thought I would spend the next SEVERAL days crying, in mourning. I never imagined that I would miss her. I never imagined it would take so long to really get her back.

I visited her a few times at college, and afterward when she married and stayed in Indiana. I was the Godmother to her first child, a daughter more beautiful than any other child ever born up until then. But even then, we didn't understand each other. She was a mom, and I was still a carefree college kid, living in sin with my later-to-be-1st-husband. She was a nurse, like our mom. I couldn't stand the idea of blood.

It wasn't until after my eldest was born that we lived in the same town again, and her youngest was born one month to the day after. She, the working mother of three, and me, the stay at home mom of one still had little in common. Oh, we got along at holidays, we never had a problem getting along. But we just weren't ever close.

Then I got pregnant with the twins. I can honestly say that I don't think I could have gotten through that time in my life without Karen. She helped me in so many ways. In fact, before I was even diagnosed I went to her asking that she measure my belly because either something was wrong or I had 2 babies in me because my uterus was at a 20 week stage and I was only 10 weeks pregnant. She agreed with me. She knew that I knew my body, and she respected my knowledge. She called me before and after every doctor visit. She helped me with my needle phobia during my gestational diabetes (I had to do 5-7 finger sticks per day). When something seemed amiss I would call her for advice. When I was emotionally drained, I called her. She stopped by and helped with my house. She made sure that eldest was looked after and loved and talked to every time I was hospitalized with premature labor. She took him to preschool, she took him out to lunch with her youngest. She became a surrogate mom for him without ever making me feel threatened in my role. She tended to my every need, often before I ever asked for help. She helped get two of everything for the babies' room.

She was on duty at the hospital when I delivered. Beast was first, and then we had problems. I knew she was there, I knew that she was helping out with Beast while I was being prepped for a C-Section for Finchie. Two hours later I was unconscious, drugged with morphine, but I know she was there. She did everything to make me as comfortable as possible while I was in, and she came by daily to help when I got home. She and my mom were there every day to do something or just be company for me and to give Eldest some additional attention.

Over the last decade and a half, she has had her problems and bouts with depressions like I have, and she has gone silent for periods. Like me, she often doesn't reach out when she really needs help and support. Unlike me, she senses the need and can pull her head out of her own ass to help out. She has been one of the best sisters I have ever known. All of those years I thought we had nothing in common. All of those years I thought she didn't understand me. All of those years I was wrong. Dead wrong.

Happy birthday, Karen. I love you and am proud to be your little sister.

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