People seem to get older all at once at my house. My sister's almost old enough to drive a car, to date, and to realize she's cooler than I am (nobody let her in on the secret). Her birthday reminds me of some angst I actually had about her being born.
I had BEGGED my mom for a sister for a decade. And when I found out that a sister was finally coming, I actually didn't want her anymore. I wasn't a jerk. It was just that my mom had an antique tea set that she always pulled out to use special on my birthday. The plates and saucers were hand-painted, and each one was unique. And my 11-year-old mind saw another girl in the house as competition for the tea set inheritance.
As soon as my mom reassured me that I could have the tea set, I accepted the idea of my sister's inevitable entrance into the world. My mom started collecting more tea cups—I think so her new little girl wouldn't feel gypped. I feel kind of silly about the whole thing now. So, Anne: I'm glad you were born. You're way better than a set of heirloom tea cups any day.
Here's to you. Happy Birthday!