Pretty Princess

After studying creative nonfiction all semester, I've been experimenting with the genre in my own writing. I decided to reflect back on the important moments of my life, and write a little segment about when my sister was born.

Hospital waiting rooms overflow with deafening silence. I hear only the click, click, click of my grandmother playing her hand-held poker game in the corner by the door. Time stands still as I wait anxiously for my parents to come back through the double doors. A sister--who really needs one of those? Nana tells me it’s been two hours so far and asks if I’m excited to get a new baby sister. I nod, rolling the plastic ring around and around my finger. I smile, remembering Dad putting the same ring on his hand during our last game of Pretty Pretty Princess (a board game that requires the players to wear numerous plastic jewelry items). I guess my parents decided to buy me the game as a consolation prize in case too much attention is put on the new baby. Dad even reluctantly put the tiara on during the game; this sister thing must be a big deal. The couch cushions crinkle as I roll over and stare at the clock, a kaleidoscope of numbers that my four-year-old self can’t begin to decipher. I inhale a sharp breath of hospital smell: rubber, cough medicine, and week-old Band-aids. Time inches forward, measured by the click, click, clicking of Nana’s game, my heartbeat deafening to my ears. The door swooshes open, leaking light into our dimmed private room. My face lights up with a grin as I behold the greatest hero I know, my dad. My feet hit the ground running and he picks me up in a hug, whispering in my ear, “Let’s go see Mommy.” I’m vaguely aware of Nana following behind us, I barely see the nurse in green pajamas that passes us; all thoughts are focused on my new baby sister. Will I like her or hate her? Hate her, I think as I squeeze my Dad’s neck tighter, wanting to keep my parents all to myself. Dad jostles us through a huge brown door, and there’s my mom, looking exhausted and holding a blanketed bundle in her arms. I fight the impulse to stare at the blankets and look away. Dad leans down and lets Mom kiss my cheek and I see a tear trickle down her face. “Kayla, this is Lauren,” she whispers, smiling brightly. I peek down and look through the folds in the blankets, swallowing hard.  Awed by the flaming red of her hair, I reach out to touch her little hand that’s balled into a tiny fist. As her beady brown eyes find mine, I realize I no longer have to play the game with Dad; I have my very own Pretty Princess in front of me.