Just when I think my baby sister is teetering on the edge of Stepford wifery, she sends me a picture of her youngest, a babe of three months, chillin’ in a Halloween graveyard.  She and I know, in the twisted sense of humor which we both inherited from our father, that a chubby little red cheeked boy cooing near an old mossy gravestone is funny.

Of my five siblings, she perhaps reminds me most of myself and though I sometimes shudder to watch her struggle with a life most 22 year olds could not swing, I am always in awe of her.  She is so many things; a mother, a sister, a student, a wife, a dreamer, a daughter, a girl and how she juggles it all amazes me.  She is not the Sammi of our childhood, that is true, but why should she be? She still loves peanut butter and bad, sappy movies.  She’ll always be a bit of an exibitionist and a food lover.  She still sleeps more than the rest of us (when she can!) and she’ll always have a little wild side tucked away, just out of reach.  Yet, she is so much more than that.  As she carves her way in the world, she’s become a lover and in turn, a nurturer.  A thinker and a believer.  So when she hesitates to staying up late or going out with the rest of us for a beer, I remind myself that she is doing her best at doing it all and knowing that; that’s usually good enough for me.

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