Essay about Personal Narrative - My Sister’s Baby

Essay about Personal Narrative - My Sister’s Baby

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My Sister’s Baby

"Shut up. I do not hate babies," my sister responded after I could not hide my astonishment at her announcement.

Although my mind was full of visions of her beating me up when I was little and she was in charge, I gave her a hug anyway and told her that I hoped she would be happy. Why not? She was married and financially independent; in fact, her work was extremely important to her. She even invited me into the delivery room as her second coach.

Upon first inspection, the room looked nothing like the pea green tiled delivery rooms so often depicted on television. The floors, although scuffed and well used, were hardwood and the walls were lined in soft shades of pink and blue in an attempt to please either sex. There was a pink vinyl couch that folded out into a bed and an inviting wooden rocker for guests. It had the atmosphere of a tacky doctor's office where they try to make you comfortable, but the sheer knowledge of where you are always cancels out all efforts. Even with all attempts the hospital made, the sterility of the room was evident. The hum from the baby monitor served as a constant irritant and occasionally her I.V. monitor would scare us all with its obnoxious warning that her fluids were low. A bright red bin clung to the wall inviting syringes and sharps and reminding us that a nurse would be in shortly to poke her somewhere else. A curtain hung from the ceiling to help give her a sense of privacy. I thought it seemed slightly ironic considering everyone was coming in and out to examine her most private of parts.

I couldn't help but to anxiously pace the floor and wonder why she was so composed. She had never even held a baby before, but before she was to ...

... middle of paper ... think? But it's nothing I can't handle," she replied. "I am holding my baby, and that's what I wanted all along."

A few days later, after she had finally brought the baby home we were all sitting around the dinner table scarfing down a frozen pizza when the baby started to cry. Heather quickly rushed into her room and scooped the baby up in her arms.

"Little podunk, why are you crying?" she asked in a voice so high it could have sent roaches running from the walls. She stood there in her sweat pants and tee-shirt with her hair swept into a off-centered ponytail staring down at her baby. Gently laying the baby down on the changing table, she proceeded to fearlessly change a diaper that sent her husband and I running. When she was done, she carelessly threw the powder and baby wipes in a bin and went to take a little nap with her baby.

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