I can clearly remember the day my mother gave me my first doll, tiny, plastic drink and wet baby, completely with a pair of pink pajamas and a blue and pink cradle. I remember the excitement of walking down the corridor of the huge empty building, my tiny dress shoes making clunk clunk sounds on the shiny floor. I held my grandmother's hand as she told me with about the baby we were going to see. 'She is your little sister' she said. My twelve year old cousin John was with us too. My Daddy stood in front of us with the video camera, slowly walking backwards so as to not miss a second of my first trip to meet my new playmate.
I don't remember my mother holding Sarah, pointing out to me her tiny head with
peach fuzz hair, her miniature fingers and toes, her little mouth as she yawned.
All I can remember about that day was the plastic drink and wet doll.
We have pictures in our albums of Sarah's first day home from the hospital.
In one, I am sitting on our old tattered couch, legs dangling, smile on my face
with a pillow sitting in my lap. A bundle of Sarah was placed cautiously on
top of the pillow. The picture, with my mother standing half out of the frame,
ready to grab the baby in case of a spill, is documentation of the first time
I, at two and a half years old, held my sister. My face is glowing with pride,
happiness and wonder as Sarah lies perfectly still.
I don't remember what else happened the day Sarah came home, but I presume I
went back to holding my own baby, a plastic drink and wet doll, a gift far less
precious than the other gift with which she provided me that day--a new best
friend.