Before my adopted brother came into our family’s lives we had lost two potential babies. My birth mother died at a young age due to a misdiagnosed ectopic pregnancy in the 1940’s. Then my dad married again and his new wife lost a baby girl pre-birth. Instead of my continuing to face the world as an only child, Peter came into our family. He was a foster child, about 3 and several years younger than I.
One day we met him and a social worker in a park — I think it was staged as a chance meeting but what I remember most is that he was one cute little guy. In a very short time a bunk bed was erected in my bedroom and I had my first “roomie” and mom and dad had the “baby” they’d been denied by fate.
I’m ashamed to admit that in the first few days I selfishly worried I’d be losing some of my parents’ attention, but that concern never materialized. In no time it became clear there was plenty of love and parental concern for both of us.
I do remember one traumatic event soon after the adoption. I was playing softball or wiffle ball in the back yard with a couple of my pre-teen buddies and we told little Pete he could be the “everlasting” catcher, standing behind whomever was up to bat. When I was batting I took a huge swing at a pitch and the bat (or was it a broomstick?) went all the way around and hit my darling little brother right in the head. Much crying and screaming ensued, and mom came running out. I felt SO guilty…”they got me this sweet little brother and I nearly broke his head open” was all I could think for a while. But as was always the case with Peter he shrugged it off and accepted my apologies. That’s the kind of guy he’s always been.