My brother and I are three years and one day apart. He, the older, was and still is considered by his siblings as “The Golden Child”, not to be confused with my title, “Miracle Child”. Every year since I was little and at least into my tweens, we celebrated our birthdays together. One big party to commemorate my mothers easiest and hardest labors.
It was 1960-something and my dad must have been away on TDY because we lived with our grandparents in their 900-square-foot San Francisco home. The entire family (aunts, uncles, great aunts, great uncles, cousins) had gathered for the wonderful celebration.I asked, no, I begged, for a Barbie cake. Half of Barbie’s torso stood above the domed cake intricately decorated in small dobs of icing. Oh, and pink, I wanted pink, which is somewhat of an oxymoron because I was a tomboy and loved the Pittsburgh Steelers. The sample cake at the market was pink and I desperately wanted that pink cake – or I just wanted the Barbie inside the cake. I can’t recall but both seem plausible. Just sandwiches, as well, I just wanted the cake and sandwiches. My brother wanted a GI Joe and marbles and Army men. This was both exciting and terrifying for me. I knew my brother and was convinced that he would either steal the Barbie for some exciting fake reconnaissance mission in which the GI Joe’s had to rescue Barbie using marbles as cannons and the mini-Army men as lookouts, or even more believable – he would take the Barbie and it would be mangled, or missing an arm, or never be seen again.
Here we were, all crammed into my grandparent’s home and the sandwiches were piled on the dining room table next to…a cake. Not a Barbie cake, but some carousel cake that looked amazing and intricately designed, and I’m sure my mom went to great lengths to spend that type of money, but it wasn’t a Barbie cake. It was a buffet-style lunch because who would want their food touched by someone else? “Happy Birthday” was sung to my brother and me, the cake was cut, and off I went to play, totally forgetting about the food, which was the only thing I had requested. My thoughtful mother must have noticed my forgetfulness, because she placed a sandwich and piece of cake on a paper plate and set it aside for me, nicely covered by a napkin. An hour later, hunger rumbling in my belly, I searched for my food. I looked high and low for sandwiches and cake, which had all been devoured by the guests. I asked my mother if she had saved any food for me because that’s what moms did! She took my hand and walked into the kitchen to the plate that had been put aside for me, only to find it gone. Immediately, my little brown eyes welled with tears that I could not hold back, disappointment filled my entire being. My mother picked me up, patted my back, and must have sensed the heinous criminality emanating from my brother, who was hiding behind my Grandad’s leg. My mother put me down and turned to kneel and spoke to my brother. I don’t know what was said, but he uttered a sigh, and blurted out the magic words he had blurted out many times before, “Sorry, Bobbie.” I stuck my tongue out at him, turned, and ran into my Nana’s arms crying that I was hungry.
He texted me yesterday, the Sandwich Stealer, offering to deliver Door Dash to me as an apology for being the Sandwich Stealer, but he also knows I can no longer eat bread or any fun food at all. I accepted his apologize and told him I love him.
