A very happy birthday goes to my sister Emily.
She has, by far, the most nicknames in my family:
Freaky (short for Freaky Friday)
I even tried to call her FF, but she didn't like it
Girly-two-shoes-lardo-lady-lap-dog (She REALLY hates that one!)
Ok. That's all I can remember!
She is my youngest sibling. I'm the oldest child and she's the youngest, so sometimes there is a "culture" difference for us. There's nearly 11 years between us, but it seems to get less with each passing year (for me at least). I frequently read her blog and she frequently tells me in her blog not to comment the way she thinks I will. And most of the time, she's right.
I still remember when she was born. My mom was cooking dinner (ground beef for some sort of casserole, probably), when her water broke. My dad loaded all us kids (4 of us at the time) in the car, with my mom, and took us to a friend's house. I don't remember their names, but I used to babysit their kids all the time, even though I was only 6 months older than their oldest child.
My mom had the longest labor of her child-bearing years--I think it was 45 minutes.
Emily was born in an army hospital in El Paso, Texas. Right after delivery, the nurses took my mom on a WALKING tour of the maternity wing. She even got to carry her own suitcase. The next morning, they woke her up, gave her crisp clean sheets, and told her to change the sheets.
My dad took us to meet Emily the next day. I remember being quite concerned that she wouldn't look at me and smile. I knew she was blind. I didn't want to make anyone else freak out, so I didn't say anything at the time. I think I didn't say anything until last year, in fact.
I remember while my mom was in the hospital (back when the stay was a minimum of 3 days), my dad made breakfast. He made homemade waffles. I was kind enough to let him know he was doing it wrong, since he didn't beat the egg whites to stiff peaks and fold them into the rest of the batter. He just added the eggs all at once. I KNEW those waffles would be disgusting. Imagine my amazement to taste delicious waffles. Ok. I hear you now--I know I'm bossy. But only sometimes. And only when I'm right. And, yes, I'm always right. I digress.
Oh yeah. The morning after Emily was born, when we got up for breakfast, the hamburger was still in the pan on the stove. I wondered if we would throw it away. We did.
The day Emily came home from the hospital was March 30, 1981. A historic day for presidential history buffs. It was the day Reagan was shot. We picked Emily and my mom up from the hospital, and I swear, we went to McDonald's off I-10 for lunch.
Here are a couple of pictures of Emily. Since she is the last child there are only slightly more pictures of her than of Julie, the next to the last. For some reason, the next to the last child has the fewest photos. :(