My parents were older than most when I was born and adopted by them, they in their 40's, after my 45 year old biological mother came from Maryland to L.A. to have me because the affair she was having with the married photographer who lived down the street from her and promised promised promised my 45 year old biological mother that he would divorce his wife and marry her, my 45 year old biological mother, yet when dear old dad heard that the affair had resulted in this pregnancy suddenly he didn't know her name and I'm pretty sure he moved to Alaska, SKADOOSH, aaaand along came me.
I was born at the perfectly reasonable time of 2 p.m. My parents were thrilled, they later told me, because my 3 ½ year older brother was born at 2 AM, and the obstetrician had called to tell them the happy news, and my father hollered “Why the hell are you calling at this hour?” and the OB/Gyn said “Well, I was up.” I love that story. Thanks, Doc!
When my parents brought me home from the hospital they showed me to my extremely rambunctious 3 ½ year old brother. According to both of my parents, Dad pointed at me and said to Andy (my brother): “This is your sister. You have to play nice because she's so small. Do not hurt her, or you're dead. Got it?”
Getting to know Dad as well as I did in the remaining 30 years and 18 days we had left, I believe that he said it. (It had become family lore by the time I was two and understood that the lore revolved around me.)
However... about nine years after I was born, Andy tried to give me a hotfoot. No, really. We were in the local park, where my brother was pitcher for his little league team. I was sitting in the bleachers, having watched Andy pitch (he was a vicious lefty), and then his team was up, so he sneaked out of the dug out and came up under the bench where I was sitting, and set my tennis shoe tie on fire (both my parents smoked, so his getting matches was a no brainer). When I realized that my shoe was on fire, I shrieked. Dad, sitting on the bench in front of me, turned around, had a quick look at my shoe, then spilled his coke on my foot, extinguishing the blaze (okay, it was probably just a smoky shoestring, but still!), and he turned back to watch the game. I poked Dad, and he looked over his shoulder at me.
“What?” he asked.
“You said he wasn't allowed to hurt me!” I said with a great deal of umbrage for a nine year old.
Dad looked at me, at my shoe, and back at me. “Did he hurt you?”
My lower lip pooched out. “Well, no. Not really. But he set fire to my shoestring!”
“But he didn't hurt you?” Dad asked again.
I had to admit that my personal personage was not hurt, so I pouted, "I guess not.”
Dad turned back around to face the game, and said, “There ya go.”