A Roast for My Big Brother Greg

Gregory Gerard was born into a still, pristine child-free household on the 22nd of October 1952. This "First Born" child of proud parents George and Joan, was photographed with paparazzi frenzy. The darling, dimpled cherub's first two years of existence were recorded in baby books with hundreds if not thousands of photographs indexed into heavy volumes.
Greggie on a pony.
Greggie with his Sammy Dog.
Lil Greg on Santa's knee!
"Just how adorable it this!" cried his parents."OH, and so bright!" others exclaimed in hopes that they too would be able to hold the bright,shiny new boy.
I did not mind being born as his younger sister, coming in second. Really. There is absolutely nothing wrong with hand-me-down diapers.I am sure my parents' camera had become misplaced or perhaps broken by December of 1954.
Greg wasn't quite willing to leave the comforts of his crib at the time of my birth. Playpens were much roomier anyway. Mom said it always gave me the opportunity to explore. Of course I can't blame my brother for my confused identity. Boy clothes were fine. A boy's bike? Sure. Except that middle bar was sometimes an ouchy.
No really, wearing my brother's football pads, helmet and jersey for a Halloween costume. Cool.
"No mam. I'm NOT Bobby."
The pristine household? Greg managed to clutter it up with toys and rocks and other such boy messes but hey, he shared. He shared boogers,chicken pox and the gum he stored under the desk.He even let me rub his back if I watched his choice of TV fare.
Yep. I was the number two of our household. But you know what? I wouldn't change it for the world because there is nothing better than having a great older brother! Love you Greg and happy birthday!

Pondering the Me Question

My guess is I started wondering who I was at the age of seven. I was cozy in my family nest but felt outside stirrings. Neighborhood. School. Church. I was incubated in midwestern Iowa. German influenced since 1886 when my great grandparents landed on New York's coast that April.
Rules and regulation.
Somewhat mellowed with three American generations, it is still the moral fiber that makes me who I am. I would never take something that was not mine. I was raised knowing I represented not just myself but my family. I represented my Church. I represented my Town. These were the teachings.Though I find pride in my heart for it even to this day, I find rebellion and the want for change. I image it is the natural progression in life.