When I was seven years old and in the first grade, my mother gave birth to my little sister. Here’s my problem with that: I do not remember my mother being pregnant. There was never the sit down where she said, “You might have a little brother or sister!” I also had no knowledge of reproduction. I never had that defining moment in childhood where I asked my parents: “Where do babies come from?” My mom never had to tell the stork story. Or the cabbage patch lie. Or stammer through a half assed truth about marital relations (When a mommy and a daddy love each other…). I feel like she missed out on a defining moment of parenting. But she totally made up for it at the hospital. I thought I had an Ivy League degree in reproduction at 7 years old! Let me start at the beginning:
As I stated before, I had no idea my mom was pregnant. I don’t remember my mom looking any different from the way she does today. I remember that my paternal grandmother (Grandma) woke me up for school one morning. When I asked where my mom was, Grandma replied that she had to go to the hospital the night before. I was confused, but not worried; mostly because my mom is a trooper. Thanks mom, great way to leave your 7 year old sleeping at home alone. Though, in her defense, they probably woke me up and I had no idea. I sleep like a motherfucking brick. I went to school as usual, experienced an almost regular school day and Grandma picked me up afterwards. Now I went to a private Catholic school. Not to be content with having me tortured by nuns, my mother was also the school’s secretary. So I had to have A LOT of “act right” in me. All of the teachers kept asking me if I was excited to have a little brother or sister. I looked at them like they had just grown a horn and fucking extra eye. In fact, they could have been speaking backwards Japanese pig Latin with a stutter. That’s how much I understood what the hell was going on. Hence, it was an *almost* regular school day.
Cut to the hospital. I go in and my mom is laid up in the hospital bed. And there is a baby in one of those weird plastic baby holder carts.
The conversation went down like this:
Me: “Mom, where did she come from?”
Mom: “Uh. Well, they brought them in here one by one and I picked the quietest one. All the rest were screaming and crying.”
Me: “But…I wanted a brother!”
Mom: “Well, they only had one boy. And a nice black couple down the hall had already picked him.”
Me: “This one is all wrinkly and red. I don’t want a red sister!”
Mom: “That will go away.”
Me: “OH MY GOD! She has a black crusty belly button!”
Mom: “It will fall off!”
Me: “What?!?!”
Mom: “That’s how you tell that they’re new…and uh, fresh…”
Me: “Get an older one!”
Mom: “We can’t! Your dad already paid for that one!”
Me: “Keep the receipt. This one might be broken. We might have to return it.”
I think my dad and my Grandma almost pissed themselves at the explanation my mother gave me. But it worked. Like most of the parental explanations I received during my formative years, I never questioned it. My parents wouldn’t lie to me! (We have yet to speak about why Santa Claus has not paid me a visit in the last 13 years…jolly fat bastard owes me some damn presents!)
As I stated before, I had no idea my mom was pregnant. I don’t remember my mom looking any different from the way she does today. I remember that my paternal grandmother (Grandma) woke me up for school one morning. When I asked where my mom was, Grandma replied that she had to go to the hospital the night before. I was confused, but not worried; mostly because my mom is a trooper. Thanks mom, great way to leave your 7 year old sleeping at home alone. Though, in her defense, they probably woke me up and I had no idea. I sleep like a motherfucking brick. I went to school as usual, experienced an almost regular school day and Grandma picked me up afterwards. Now I went to a private Catholic school. Not to be content with having me tortured by nuns, my mother was also the school’s secretary. So I had to have A LOT of “act right” in me. All of the teachers kept asking me if I was excited to have a little brother or sister. I looked at them like they had just grown a horn and fucking extra eye. In fact, they could have been speaking backwards Japanese pig Latin with a stutter. That’s how much I understood what the hell was going on. Hence, it was an *almost* regular school day.
Cut to the hospital. I go in and my mom is laid up in the hospital bed. And there is a baby in one of those weird plastic baby holder carts.
The conversation went down like this:
Me: “Mom, where did she come from?”
Mom: “Uh. Well, they brought them in here one by one and I picked the quietest one. All the rest were screaming and crying.”
Me: “But…I wanted a brother!”
Mom: “Well, they only had one boy. And a nice black couple down the hall had already picked him.”
Me: “This one is all wrinkly and red. I don’t want a red sister!”
Mom: “That will go away.”
Me: “OH MY GOD! She has a black crusty belly button!”
Mom: “It will fall off!”
Me: “What?!?!”
Mom: “That’s how you tell that they’re new…and uh, fresh…”
Me: “Get an older one!”
Mom: “We can’t! Your dad already paid for that one!”
Me: “Keep the receipt. This one might be broken. We might have to return it.”
I think my dad and my Grandma almost pissed themselves at the explanation my mother gave me. But it worked. Like most of the parental explanations I received during my formative years, I never questioned it. My parents wouldn’t lie to me! (We have yet to speak about why Santa Claus has not paid me a visit in the last 13 years…jolly fat bastard owes me some damn presents!)
My mom had me convinced until I was 10 years old that you bought babies at the hospital. No wonder my teachers thought I was retarded. I’m 27 years old now. My sister is 20. I still want my parents to get a refund.
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