When my brother was born, my parents weren't optimistic. He was born with a shriveled body and a weak heart, and no one but Aunty Nicey thought he would survive. They named him William Armtrong, a name for fit for a grave than a child.
He couldnt crawl or walk like normal children do, the doctor said it was because his body couldn't hadle the stress. He only crawled backwards, which mad him look a doodle bug.
I'm going to call you Doodle. William Armstrong is a horrible name.
Doodle got talkative as he got older, and soon he wanted to go play with me. Anytime I even thought about playing around outside, my mom would make me take Doodle too. He was a burden, but he was also my brother so I pulled him around in a go-cart Daddy made, and showed him my favorite places.
I knew that playing with my brother was imminent and not up for discussion with my parents, but it wasn't actually as bad as I thought. We told intricate lies and made crowns out of wildflowers. We had fun.
When he turned five I got embarrassed that I had a brother who couldn't walk. I decided to teach him. We practiced for weeks until he could stand up on his own, and after more hard work he could walk by his self.
When we finally showed everyone, they were overjoyed. It was a hard secret to keep, but it was worth it.