Count to ten.

I made my parents take me to Dr. December*. I remember screaming and crying, the jagged sensation of pain in my right arm. I was hurt and I needed my doctor and my parents to take care of me.

I don't remember the actual checkup, but my father tells me that I was a shrewd one. When the doctor asked me to move my arm to see if it hurt, I lifted my left arm straight to the sky. When he stopped laughing and asked me to move my right arm, I refused, cried some more and asked my dad to hold my hand.

He wrapped my arm in an ACE bandage and sent me home, where I lay on the couch in glory. My right arm was propped on a pillow, trusty Baby-Baby (my favorite doll) nestled in the crook of my left arm. My mother and father were attending to me, and the little mass of human that had invaded my territory six months earlier finally wasn't the center of attention.

I was three years old and I'd just pulled my first large-scale jealous sibling diva fit. Petty? Of course. But I was so offended and incredulous about a perceived snub that I needed to do something to make my presence known.

Twenty-one years later, I watch as yellow parcels are handed out throughout the room. Their contents are trite, but they take on increased significance because I am one of the few to not receive one. Suddenly, the cheap mass of plastic and metal becomes more important than the sum of their parts.

I'm offended and incredulous about a perceived snub. And, much to my surprise, I feel a desire to throw a fit and make my presence known.

I decide to go for a walk instead. As I'm now responsible for covering the cost of delusional doctor's visits.

*His name was actually Dr. Ecember, but a three-year-old's logic naturally results in a new, calendar-friendly name.