Happy Birthday America...and Mannah!

This past weekend millions of Americans celebrated the 233 anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. America's B-day if you will. Like most anniversary and or birthday celebrations, this special day is marked by excessive eating and drinking, parades, and large firework displays.

For me and my kin the annual celebration of America coincides with the birthday celebration of the youngest Madison girl (yes, this is not in fact our real last name, but my family has asked me to make this as anonymous for them as possible; they claim that my blogging is a self indulgent blemish on our otherwise pristine image). Little Mannah, the patriot that she is, was born the day after our nation's birthday. She graced our family on the 5th; forever reminding us that while as a country we may have been able to break free from the tyrannical grip of the British empire, as individuals we are forever bound to those we are forced to call blood relatives.

This year Mannah turned sixteen, sweet sweet sixteen. I did not get her a gift as she has never given me anything other than head lice and a headache. Instead, I dedicate this little ditty to the story of Mannah.

For the first 7 years of my existence I was the youngest of two girls. Memma, 21 months my senior, and I were the closest of siblings. She would pour toys on me (its unclear if her intent was to shower me with love and affection or to cause permanent brain damage to my soft unformed head), carry me around the house, and otherwise love me as all attention starved barely older girls love their younger, cuter baby sisters. Over the years Memma and I grew up as two sister peas in a pod. I relished my role as the youngest sister and while I wanted a puppy quite badly, I never really desired more siblings.

I'd like to note that while I love little Mannah now, for many years I resented her and its pretty much all my parents fault (love you guys!). It all started one winter evening, the eighth night of the Jewish festival of lights. For those of you unfamiliar with Jewish tradition or the Adam Sandler song, Hanukkah is a Jewish holiday that normally coincides with Christmas. While there is no historical or religious precedent for exchanging gifts during this 8 day holiday, Hallmark and the normative Christ oriented traditions of the Western world have turned it into the x-mas for Jews. Basically we get gifts for 8 whole nights.

In my family, the biggest gift was always reserved for the 8th and final night. That final night of Hanukkah back in 1992 Memma and I received a gift that would forever change our lives. All week my parents had been talking up our "big" last gift. They were so excited about it and I, having grandiose and unrealistic expectations, couldn't help but imagine things that I have only ever seen on VH1's The Fabulous Life of Celebrity Children.

The big moment came after we lit the Hanukkah candles and my mother sang 43 songs in Hebrew. My father handed us a a thin square package wrapped in blue shiny paper. It looked like a book, but of course it couldn't be. At that point in my life I still believed in all things good and holy; the general premise of my early childhood that my parents did in fact love me and desired nothing more than my happiness was vaguely in tact.

It had to be tickets to Disney World or a picture of the family yacht we had just purchased. As we tore the wrapping paper off shock and dismay slowly enveloped our small faces as they shone in the dim glimmer of CVS brand Hanukkah candlelight. It was a book. But not just any book, it's cover was shiny and featured a graphic picture of a partially developed fetus in utero. Were my parents indoctrinating us about the evils of abortion? Of course not, we are from liberalsville, NJ. Were they giving us the gift of sex education? Definitely not, my mother had been sure to explain the proper use of condoms on a banana years ago. Then what was it.

"Memma, Mephanie" My mother said, barely able to contain her happiness. "You are going to have a little sister!"

My mouth dropped open as my mothers hands clapped in the air. I'm glad one of us was excited.

"You mean the book is our gift?" I said, shocked by this sham of holiday gift.
"No Mephie, your getting a little sister, that is your gift." My father said.
"But you didn't have to pay for that." Memma observed astutely. "And the book only cost $14.95." Memma, already a financial wizard at the tender age of 9, made out the price under my mother's attempted Sharpie cover.

So it appeared, that in total, our Hanukkah gifts amounted to three pairs of socks, some pogs, a $14.95 book that graphically displayed the nature of human gestation, and the cost of a broken condom. Totally kidding on that one, my mom tricked my dad and poked holes in her diaphragm (guess who's not going to get any gifts ever again after their family reads that).

Nine months later, on July 3rd, my mother went into labor. I can't say I was particularly excited about Mannah's timing. That year I was to march in our town's annual July 4th parade with my dad. I was pretty excited about this and had been looking forward to it for months. I had stocked up on patriotic attire and even had a pair of dangly troll earrings with red, white and blue hair. When my mother went into labor the night before the parade, I figured the baby would be born and then my father would return from the hospital and march with me. I was wrong. Mannah decided to drag our her birth and didn't make an appearance until the wee hours of the morning on July 5th. Guess what that meant, no parade for me (not with my father anyway, I marched with my childhood friend Mhloe and her father, but it was NOT the same).

I guess I would be lying if I didn't admit to some mild enthusiasm about the birth of Mannah. I was bizarrely excited by the idea of being at a five person table in a restaurant as opposed to our standard 4 (though this wouldn't last long, Mannah wasn't even out of the high chair when my parents divorced and the five person table went up in smoke). I had also loved to the naming process; insisting that Hillary, in an ode to our then first lady, was the name for my unborn sibling. Clearly I was overruled on this one.


Within a few weeks however, it was apparent that Mannah's presence meant less attention for me. I tried to remind my parents that I too was just a child, the baby really. I started drinking out of a small plastic bottle (I drank juice only, don't get any ideas) and insisted I sleep with my 7 year old baby blanket. Mannah still seemed to capture more attention.

Not being the cutest and most loved daughter slowly sunk in and I realized I was now a middle child. Being the positive beacon of light that I naturally am, I was able to turn this new found familial irrelevance into an opportunity. I would be, I realized with great clarity and sense of purpose, a role model, nay, the single most important role model in Mannah's life.

I was now on a mission to teach Mannah the in's and out's of life. I played Mozart over her sleeping crib. I counted her toes as each piggy went to market. I threw things at her to build her reflexes. As she got older I let her do things like fetch my snacks from the kitchen so she would develop cooking skills. I had her sit by the TV and manually turn the channel so she would know to NEVER EVER lose the remote or its batteries. I was caring to say the least.

When my parents divorced only a year after Mannah's birth, I was careful to treat the subject with sensitivity. I explained to her for years to come that she wasn't the reason they didn't love each other any more. Instead, she was a save the marriage baby and it was in spite of her that they could not stay together. (Side note: most parents do not appreciate it when you explain their separation as the fault of your younger and extremely impressionable sibling).

I taught her other life lessons. For example, when she was about 7 and I was about 15, Mannah did something to really piss me off. I can't remember what it was, but I do remember that I had a cookie in my mouth at the time. I was so mad at her childish insolence that I used the only weapon I had, the half chewed cookie. I spit said cookie in her face. This was an especially harsh lesson because everyone that knows me knows my affinity for all things cookie. But I think she really learned to never again do whatever it was that had pissed me off in the first place.

Now Mannah is 16 and I am 23. Its hard to believe that she is a woman, mostly because she still retains some of the man like qualities that garnered her the nickname Tranny at the tender age of 12. Though our relationship has been tumultuous at times, I think she knows I love her and value her as a sister, but definitely not as a holiday gift.