From the time I was young, age was just a number. Some numbers were more important. 10 meant I was a decade old. 13 meant I was finally a teenager. 16 meant I could get my driver’s license. 21 meant I could drink legally. Beyond that, I didn’t focus much on a number because that is all it was. Even as a teen, I didn’t consider my parents old. Sure, they were in their 40s, but 40 was just a number. (Yes, I might have been a bit unusual.) When I neared my 30th birthday, I thought nothing about it.
On this day forty years ago, I was sick and miserable, like today. At very nearly three years old, though, I needed my mom, but she wasn’t there for me. I felt angry and upset. It wasn’t that my mom didn’t want to be there for me. She did. However, she had other priorities that day; namely, giving birth to my little sister, Amy. The arrival of my baby sister meant I went from only child to older sister. When my sister finally came home, a few days later, I gave my mom the silent treatment, but gushed over Amy.