I actually wrote this yesterday, and I was trying to post it, but my battery died; you see, my room is a frozen tundra, and since my room is a frozen tundra, I was reluctant to leave the warmth of my electric blanket to go fetch the charger so that I could post this.  So I went to sleep instead.  (In case that’s not clear, their birthday was yesterday, not today.)

When I was a little girl rocking blond pigtails, I remember thinking that I had the best big brother and sister on the planet. I also remember thinking that two cooler people couldn’t possibly exist. They were the two most prominent figures in my life, and I adored them.

I’m sure a lot of people can say that about their siblings, but I imagine most people don’t quite grasp just how much weight that statement carries when I say it. I largely brought myself up, but I was only capable of doing so with their help. Everything I am, everything I’ve done would not have been possible without Benjamin and Sarah. Both of them have at some point been my sibling, my parent, my best friend, my teacher, and my protector—sometimes all at once.

I’ve always suffered from horrible nightmares, but when I was a little girl, I didn’t cope well with them. I was afraid to sleep alone. I was passed around to each member of my immediate family over the years, sleeping alongside each of them. It was the only way I could manage to get through the night. I was a violent sleeper. I tossed, I turned, I kicked. My brother and sister still let me sleep in their beds with them. Okay, there was that one time when I peed all over my sister in her sleep, and she wasn’t too keen on letting me sleep with her anymore, but I forgive her for that. I also used to sleepwalk. (Okay, I still sometimes do.) My brother and sister would keep an eye out for me when they stayed up late doing schoolwork, and when I’d emerge sleepwalking, they’d gently wake me up and bring me back to my bed. I remember one particular occasion when my sister put my head over steam to help wake me up calmly so I wouldn’t jolt into consciousness afraid. She understood me. They often had to calm me down in the middle of the night after particularly bad nightmares. They never complained about it, at least to me. They took care of me, their baby sister, out of love.

My brother taught me how to play basketball. He taught me how to throw a football. He taught me how to play chess, and he introduced me to poetry. He’s the reason I love poetry so much, the reason why I write even though I’m not particularly talented.

My sister played Barbies with me. She played with LEGO bricks with me, building house plans out of the bricks. She played Polly Pocket with me. She did all of this even when she herself was well beyond the age of being interested in these things. Even though she wanted to play house, she’d always indulge my impulses to play out far more wild and adventurous scenarios. She taught me a lot about being a girl when no one else did, but she did so in a way that still made me feel comfortable being the feminine and yet less than girly female that I am. One year, closing in on Christmas, there was a tornado scare; she took me into the bathroom, covered the floor in pillows, wrapped me up in a blanket, and cuddled me while reading The Best Christmas Pageant Ever aloud to distract me from my fear. She’s also taught me how to cook some really delicious things that I couldn’t otherwise possibly have pulled off, because I am not talented in the culinary department the way she is.

They taught me to love, and to love fiercely. They also taught me anger, but more importantly, controlling that anger. That in turn taught me how to forgive, to understand, and to give the benefit of the doubt. Also to control my impulses by instead channeling them into a cleverly concealed plan of revenge with relatively low risk. Kidding. Mostly. I learned first hand from them that, yes, people you love will hurt you, but that also hurts them—I learned to remind myself that they usually weren’t intentionally out to hurt my feelings.

They both have always, always, always supported my writing. I’ve wanted to write since I was five. Neither of them have ever said a disparaging word about anything I’ve written. They’ve praised my poetry since I began writing when I was eleven. When I was in fifth grade, we were to write a ten-page story around Christmastime. I was a bit overzealous, and my story wound up going well past twenty pages. My teacher focused on that rather than my writing. I remember being upset, because I had put a lot of effort into the story, and it needed to go past ten pages. My brother and sister both read it and told me that it was very good for my age, and they told me that my teacher just couldn’t see my talent because it resulted in more work for her. I cannot tell you how much that pushed me to continue writing, regardless of how true or false their comments were. To this day, my sister loves to read anything I write. While she is undoubtedly the most biased reader I have, it still warms my heart to know that she gets excited to read my writing, even when it sucks. (I personally like to think I’m just prepping her for Alice’s future art projects.)

Every success I’ve had, they’ve been there to cheer me on. When I got into BU, they both bragged to their friends and colleagues. When I graduated early from BU, they bragged to everyone they knew. When I got into grad school, they praised me from the hilltops. After I graduated, my brother indulged me enough to make a “Master and Commander” sign to hold up at the airport when I got into town.

When I proclaimed my decision to become Catholic, they supported me. The night I was baptized, my brother called me beforehand and told me how proud he was of me for taking that step and for being so staunch in my faith. He told me he admired me for that. That was huge coming from him. He even bought me a very lovely cross for the occasion (that, of course, matched my dress—he picked it out and mailed it to me). They were proud of me, even though they don’t believe exactly the same things I do.

I’d been having a rough time, and been going through a lot of weird things. I talked to my sister about things that I don’t talk to people about. She let me rant. She let me talk. I sounded ridiculous and crazy, and she never judged. She was supportive and understanding—accepting. She knew how to ease my self-consciousness.

They’ve both helped me out in times of crisis. They’ve both given me their shoulders. And they always will.

And today they turned thirty.

They’re my sun and my moon—two constants that I often take for granted, but without which my days would lose coherency and meaning. And I love them, so very much.

Oh, and that part about two cooler people existing? Scratch that—they’re huge dorks. I’ve come to realize that it’s genetic.

Happy birthday, Ben and Sarah. Without you, I’d be so much less than I am.