Editor's Notebook

When you’re two years old and are told you are getting a baby sister, excitement is through the roof.

When the day finally arrived it was like Christmas for the now three-year-old.

I was told they were going to take me to the hospital to see my new sis.

I couldn’t have been more excited to see my new playmate that we actually got to take home and keep.

But when they held me up to see through the glass on the old half door-half window to look into the nursery what I saw was not near what I was expecting.

I was hoping to see my sister at least holding a ball if not wearing a pair of pistols on her hips, a la Wild Bill Hickok style.

Neither of which were the case.

All I saw was this tiny little bundle of wrapped up Tootsie Roll laying in this tiny little bed they called a bassinet.

I was devastated to learn my playmate was actually nothing more than a little doll-like object that couldn’t talk or walk, much less play hide-and-go-seek.

No, I didn’t come to look at the babies. I came to meet my new playmate.

As the days and months turned into years, Missy did grow and we had our share of playtimes, but much to the chagrin of our parents some of the playtime turned into sibling fighting.

We were never in the same school building growing up but did over lap one year at OU.