Lynne Guey

the product of immigrant strife and bourgeois achievement. i seek ataraxia; stories warrant my devotion.

Thanks, for birthday cake: Chapter 2

When my sister Wendy turned 6, she received two unexpected pieces of news. The first was that she would no longer have her own birthday cake. This was heartbreaking, because it meant she’d have to share.  As if it weren’t enough that there were already a million other people born on September 29, stealing her spotlight on her special day, she couldn’t avoid this cake-stealer. That’s because it would be living next door, wailing at all hours of the night and needing its ass wiped every few hours. That delightful creature would be her little sister- me, born exactly six years after her first candle was lit.

The second thing Wendy learned was that her super sweet 6withouttheteen birthday bash at Rapids Water Park would be cancelled, or at least postponed until our Mother could recuperate from my birth. This was almost definitely the more devastating of the headlines, for 6 is one of those years when birthday parties are obligatory markers of social standing within the kindergarten hierarchy. Not having a birthday party was like coloring outside the lines - sacrilegious and ugly. Yup, her life was effectively ruined. 

So at the ripe age of 6, my sister didn’t exactly welcome my arrival with a bed of roses. Though over the course of the next ten years, we did share many a bed, igniting some violent blanket tug-of-wars.  I once punched her in the middle of the night (I was dreaming okay!) and she slapped me in return. This is the truest reflection of our relationship- mutual abuse, no holds barred.

I write as if we’re two dueling dragons, but we breathe friendly puffs of air, not deadly balls of fire. She can beat me at any game involving mental acuity (aka brains), but I compensate with a…zest for food? We’re friends. Most of all, she keeps it real, never indulging me with things that appease. And yet when she criticizes, she does so with such sophistication and good humor that you forget she’s actually pointing out your wrongs. 

Last week, she and I celebrated our birthdays together, which was nothing special of course because we’ve been having joint parties since my diaper-wearing days. Pretty clear who got the better end of the deal there…partying with 5 year olds is always the best!

We are now 22 and 28.. This year’s party got rockin’ at Wendy’s apartment in Cambridge with me, our Mom, Wendy, her husband John, and their 3-week old baby boy.  As we sat on the anniversaries of our existence with a simple home-cooked dinner, the thought of our passing age barely crossed my mind. Baby Christopher sang the birthday tune with his wails, necessitating several pauses for diaper-changing.  This was a different celebration indeed.

For 22 years, I’ve relished in all the glory of my birthday by devouring cake and ripping open gifts. But there’s something about new existence that feeds the appetite of your own. Gluttonous craving for your cake subsides (and I’m not just saying that because we opted for pie this year).  

The birth of my beautiful baby nephew has given me a small taste of what it must have felt like for Wendy when I came into the picture 22 years ago. I not only took her cake, I took her birthday party, I took her clothes, I took the very essence of her identity and blended it into my own. And since the age of six, she’s graciously shared, asking for nothing more than an occasional massage in return. :)

Wendy is my sister by birth, soul sister by choice.  She’s sparked my envious interest in the many activities she excelled in, yet continuously encouraged me to be my own person and follow my bliss.  I am grateful for her wisdom. Most of all I am grateful for who she is: living proof of selfless living. 22 years ago, I joined her at the table for cake. I devoured my share with all its extra toppings- frothy whipped cream with a cherry on top and dribbling chocolate sauce on the side. She graciously provided my selfish indulgence and now my appetite for life is well-fed. 

It’s time for me to make room at the table for baby Christopher, yet another September baby who will be digging into life’s cake. My slice of cake will heretofore be smaller but that’s okay.  With more people at the table, we will still manage to have our cake, eat it, and yes, perhaps even enjoy the deliciousness of life more too.

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