A Story I’ve Mentioned Before: Dropping My Brother on the Porch

November is National Family Stories Month. So we should tell our stories to family and friends. Stories make us who we are.

Or sometimes we hope stories don’t influence our lives. Here’s a story I have mentioned before, and it is one I’m glad had no lasting impact. The story dates back to the spring of 1968.

My mother sent me outside to find my little sister, who was about three-and-a-half. Little sister spent a lot of time with her friend who lived across the street from us. I was taking care of my six-month-old brother while Mother made dinner, so I slung baby brother on my twelve-year-old hip and stepped out onto the front porch to look for my sister.

Baby brother was not happy about being slung, and he screamed bloody murder and struggled against my grasp. I struggled back, trying to get a good grip—if he wouldn’t stay on my hip, would he lie across my arms? No, he wasn’t happy there either.

I yelled for my sister, wondering if I was going to have to carry this angry baby across the street.

Just as I was about to step off the porch, baby brother gave a fearsome squall and arched his back. He popped right out of my arms and onto the concrete porch.

Wham!

Well, that shut him up.

I don’t know which of us was more startled. Of course, at twelve, I had a greater understanding of the potential consequences of a baby hitting his head on concrete than six-month-old baby brother. He could have a concussion. He could have a brain bleed. He could be damaged for life!

Although baby brother couldn’t articulate the full scope of the medical issues he might have incurred, he did he seem to comprehend that his fall had not been a good thing. His crying recommenced.

I found little sister and took both kids back inside. I bathed baby brother’s head, which had a red mark on it.

But other than the red mark, he didn’t seem to have any ill effects from the fall in the days after it occurred. I told my mother I’d dropped him, but I minimized the potential impact.

Still, I worried. I worried for years, watching him for developmental delays.

At two, he knew his alphabet and could read a few words.

At ten, he could beat me at Trivial Pursuit. (Of course, he had time to memorize the cards, and I was busy with law school.)

He did take five years to get through college, but he completed a double major in Pre-Med and French. And he went to medical school, ending up as the chief resident in his residency program.

This week, he turned fifty-four. I think I can quit worrying. And with this public confession, I will put the incident behind me.

Happy Birthday, baby brother!