Being the youngest has it’s advantages, but it definitely has it’s disadvantages, too. This is something I wrote a decade ago, but fitting for National Sibling’s Day. Although my siblings gave me more headaches than I could count growing up, I wouldn’t change them for anything in the world. They’ve always been there for me through thick and thin.
The beginning of life starts off with that first breath of life. However, my battle began way before my mother’s water broke and right after conception.
I was not a solitary egg making my way along that passageway we once all went through. I was not alone. I had not yet come into existence.
It was my sister, not I, who undertook the impressive journey, and managed to split her tiny egg in two.
I imagine our pair was a good one. She took care of me, and I am certain I did the same.
When month seventh arrived, it was then that my mother was given full awareness of my existence. I can even imagine the smile on her face.
And finally, after what seemed an eternity, our time finally arrived. The planning departure had initially been nine months, but we decided to give mom another surprise.
Weighing four pounds apiece, we were healthy babies. However, like most stories, mine did not have a completely happy ending.
A minute younger than my identical twin sister, I was the runt of the family.
I was the one who strived to survive the wrath of older siblings and constant restrictions that younger children undergo.
“You must not go outside by yourself!” my mother would scold me.
“You can’t do that!” my older brother would reply.
“Hey, clean the dishes because I’m on the phone,” my older sister would command.
“I’m older than you so you have to listen to me!” my twin sister would say.
I must admit my childhood was a good one, a great one for that matter. The constant scolds, commands, and requests from all my older siblings were not.
However, I was a twin. Wasn’t I? I was not the only youngest one.
“Excuse me. Hello. Hello! I’m not the only youngest one here!”
Even though I tried my hardest, my exclamations would remain perfectly useless.
The only thing I ever got out of those futile battles was a sore throat.
Whether by accident or pure coincidence, I was the youngest. I was the baby of the family.
Nineteen years later, although in different settings, I’m still fighting for my place in my family, and the same question lingers in my mind.
If they consider me the youngest of the family, why is my twin sister not?