To borrow from the Peanuts, it was a dark and stormy night. In the wee hours of September 16, 1983, a little girl woke up to find her mother gone. Strangely, so were the sheets. She peered over the edge of the bed to see the comforting, omnipresent and prone figure of her beloved Sharda, maid and minder since she was a mere three months. All the while, the rain clattered down, as if making up for her missing parents with its cacophony.
The little girl smiled. “I’m getting a brother,” she reminded herself, well-prepared parrot that she was. And snuggled back under the covers to dream of all the things she would do for the New Baby.
He arrived at 12.14 p.m. Red, hairy and monkey-like. (She would later learn that her mother had wept in horror at the sight of her ugly second-born.) She took a bunch of roses to the hospital. It was love at first sight. And she became the most willing mommy-in-training there ever was, naming him, rocking him and holding the edge of his soiled cloth diapers.
Don’t bother telling him this, though. He’ll only smirk. And turn back to the monitor and tune you out.
Happy birthday, you 6’1” punk. Remember you once relied on me to ring the doorbell.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi