A Baby Sister

Some events stand out in the mind firmly enough that we remember where we were on a particular day, even a day decades in the past. National and international incidents like the first moon landing or President Kennedy’s assassination or September 11, 2001, are among these occasions. But so are family events—the death of a loved one, a wedding, or a birth.

This week, I’m remembering the night of September 17, 1964. I was eight and a half years old. My younger brother had just turned seven. And we were about to welcome a new sibling.

When my mother went into labor, there was time to prepare. My mother called a babysitter to stay with my brother and me for the night while she and my dad were at the hospital.

The sitter’s name was Jody, who sat for us often through her high-school and junior-college years. Jody had had her two front teeth knocked out in a merry-go-round accident and she had a bridge to replace her teeth. If we cajoled her enough, she would take out the bridge, showing us the gap that made her look like a seven year old.

I was a little miffed at having a babysitter that night, though my parents typically did get a sitter for us when they were both away. But the year before, when my mother had had a miscarriage in the middle of the night, my dad had left me in charge. I probably should have understood why they got us a sitter, but my miffed eight-year-old self didn’t see why these two events were different, why the year before had been an emergency that necessitated leaving two kids home alone.

The primary reason I was miffed that September evening in 1964 was that I was going to have to share my bedroom with Jody, assuming my dad would be gone most of the night. Like my brother and me, Jody had school the next morning, and she needed her sleep. I had two twin beds in my room, but I still resented my lack of privacy.

Mother and Dad left. Jody got my brother and me to bed. I went to sleep. At some point, Jody also went to sleep in my room.

Early the next morning, I was awakened by sounds of my father talking to my brother in his bedroom next to mine. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, only the sounds of their voices.

When I got up, Dad told me I had a baby sister. She had arrived sometime after midnight on the 18th. My brother lorded it over me, because he’d known before I did. That miffed me also—I was older and should have known first. But even at age eight, I knew Dad wouldn’t come into my bedroom while Jody was there.

A few days later, Mother and my baby sister were home. Within a few weeks, my brother moved to a bedroom in the basement, and our baby sister got his room. I kept my nice big bedroom with the twin beds. I suppose that should have made up for the humiliation of being the second to know about our new sibling. But it didn’t.

What do you recall about your younger siblings’ births?