Love. I have the pleasure of sharing my mom with two other human beings.
The eldest, when I was younger, was my protector. We jumped around the house, played hide-n-seek, mastered video games on Nintendo, watch horror movies, race by foot or bike, and laugh until morning came on Christmas day. He is six years older than me, and I guess that’s enough years to live things in different beats of life. He is Generation X.
The youngest, when he was younger, I was his protector. I changed him as a baby, we played games, we were friends. Our morning rituals were sacred and fun, and walking him to school was one of the best thing I did as a teenager. It halted me from going to Volleyball practice for a year, but I wouldn’t change anything for the world. He still remembers today, as I remember today. He is seven years younger than me, and that also is enough years to live things in different beats of life. He is a late Generation Y.
You have guessed it, I am the only XX of my siblings, and also the middle child. Social butterfly, peacekeeper, and fairness-obsessed are words defining the middle child stereotype, i.e. me. Being the only me, also meant the black sheep. I embraced that role, and inspiratrion rolled… I am an early Generation Y.
What a pleasure sharing my mom with these two.
Whenever we, as siblings, take the time to speak and to listen to each other, laugh, reminisce, debate, laugh some more, it makes everything elsewhere null. The intuitive intelligence we share is powerful, but sadly is seldom felt. We grew apart years before we were even born, but that never defined our bond. We know who we are to each other, we are home to each other, and we ain’t the other. A bond that only can be felt in the womb, even at different cycles of the moon.
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