I grew up with two brothers. I’m the middle child, with one brother two years older and the younger one six whole years apart. I think people can look at us, especially my older brother and me, and tell by our physical similarities that we’re related. Same deep-set eyes and nose.
I’d say without a doubt that my brothers and I are share the same moral code, understanding of family, and deep love for where, and how, we were raised.
But we’re also really different. In our life choices, our day-to-day living and how we navigate life.
I love that I’ve got my brothers because sometimes I can use them as fact-checkers….when I have some bizarre memory I can double check that it really happened (and ‘it’ usually did happen). I love that even though they’re brothers, siblings of mine, they’re also vastly different from one another.
We come from the same home, loved by the same parents, grandparents and extended family.
But we’re also so different.
And when I see my girls, loved in the same home, by the same parents, grandparents and extended family, show me that they are indeed different, unique and wholly themselves, I find great comfort.
Because how incredibly boring would life be if we were all the same.
