Having (considerably) older siblings

This week my brother Mark and sister Debbie have birthdays (Deb's is actually today). They are two years apart, but they have always shared a birthday week.

I will not tell you how old they are, though I will say the age difference between us can be measured in double-digit years.

I will also add that, when I was born in November 1969, my oldest sister Judi was in her junior year of high school and was only 3 1/2 months from turning 17.

While not exactly rare, it is uncommon nowadays for a 17-year-old to have a newborn baby brother. Trust me when I say it was even more uncommon in 1969.

As the story goes, my siblings found out my mom was pregnant not from Mom herself, but from our Aunt Peg. I don't know if Mom was unsure how they would react or what, but I'm told they were all pretty thrilled by the idea of having a little brother or sister.

There was a time when all six of us lived in a 900-square-foot house with no upstairs, no basement, and only one bathroom. I don't remember that time because it all happened during the first two years of my life, but having spent 22 years in that same house myself, I can imagine how chaotic it must have been.

By the time I was in kindergarten, Judi and Mark were both married (he would later join the Air Force and spend several years overseas). And while Debbie technically lived with us, I don't remember seeing her all that much.

I always say I was essentially raised an only child, even though I'm the youngest of four.

As often happens as we age, I'm much closer to Debbie and Mark now than I ever was as a kid (and I was close to Judi before she passed away). We don't see each other as often as I might like, though Debbie cuts my hair every two weeks and, as of this writing, Mark and I were planning to take in a baseball game together this week.

All the same, I hope this is the happiest of birthday weeks for my brother and sister. My much, much older brother and sister.