I was four years old when my parents told me they were expecting their next and last baby. I remember being so repulsed by the whole idea that I swore off completely all the making out I had been doing with my three-year-old neighbor, Michael. Lest I find myself wrapped up in the same kind of trouble.
It wasn't a good start for Johnny. Before he was even born he had already robbed me of both my role as youngest, and my premature sex life. Thus the resentment roller coaster was born. On October 12, 1990 (1991?).
Resentment waned and morphed into amusement when he picked up the endearing habit of putting socks into his pants as a tail and growling at strangers in the grocery store. In third grade I wrote a poem about it and entered it into the young author's competition. When I lost, it was time for my muse to become the object of my resentment again. (Had I kept my rightful role of youngest, we'd know that blaming others for my personal rejection is just an unavoidable character flaw obtained from my birth order.)
Resentment probably flared back up again at 15 when he started dating a girl named Maggie born on June 16 (hey that's my birthday!), but then burned back off again when he managed to be the only teenager in this decade to get arrested for stealing music by lifting a CD from Best Buy in the greatest age of online music piracy. Since, my winning approval has been sealed by similarly cute little stunts I just can't help but like.
It's been a significant stretch since I've last resented the little compact-disc, birth-order bandit, and perhaps I'm adult enough to say Johnny, two thumbs up. Welcome to adulthood. If you weren't already there. Again, I'm not sure.