The date is March 1983. My mother is in labor about to pop out my brother. I’m staying with friends nearby. My friends just happen to be 8 and 6, 5 and 3 years older than I am. They have an awesome room with two beds making an L shape. They thought it would be awesome to jump from bed to bed.
The stupid part:
3 year old me thought I could join in and actually make it from bed to bed. Sure I did make it. A few times anyway. Then I got stupid and jumped right after my friend had landed, compressing the bed. I landed just as the bed rebounded, throwing me from the bed right into the corner of a metal night table. I caught the table right in the eyebrow.
I still remember coming down their stairs and seeing nothing but red. That’s the problem with head wounds. They bleed. A lot. A. Fricken. Lot. So for my brothers first day on earth, I joined him in the hospital after getting my eyebrow stitched together. Once I took a good look at my little brother, I stated quite proudly, “I don’t want an Ian. I wanted a Court-a-knee (Courtney).” Under no circumstances did I ever want a baby brother. I wanted a little sister. That was the second stupid thing I had ever done. With all the great times I’ve had with my brother, there’s no way I would have had as much fun with a little sister. Brothers form a bond that no brother-sister relationship can touch. Except maybe in remote parts of the Appalachians where brother-sister relationships are a completely different thing entirely.
I Swear! We're not crazy 