I was almost ten when he was born. All that distance between our ages meant he was more of a
burden to me than a playmate. I’m sure there were times he hated being bossed
around by his big sister even more than I hated tending him. It seemed like he
was always in need of having his hands washed or his nose wiped. His knees were
always skinned and there were always disgusting things in his pockets. Somehow,
while I wasn’t looking, he grew up. Suddenly he’s this smart, responsible,
hard-working fellow with a lovely house; the kind of guy who owns jet skis, supports his football team, and takes
vacations to Hawaii. He’s a devoted husband and a terrific dad. And he’s fifty
today. Lest he get swell-headed about all that, he should remember: to
his big sister he’ll always be a snot-nosed little brat. Happy birthday, Ron!
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