My little sister is Nana

Oliver.

At first I thought, eh, baby-blob. They're always ugly little pink prunes at first. 

And then I looked closer and my heart melted.

He's in that horrible incubator thing because he's a week early. That ghastly thing taped on his head will soon be taken off.

Surprise! 

So eager to be alive.

And I marvel that another soul made it through the gauntlet of preventative medicine and procedures against their chances of making it out alive and now he's taken up into the gauntlet of modern medicine to promote him. I stare into the picture of his face and find myself asking, who are you? 

He's lucky. That's who he is. He is born into a fantastic steady environment. A wonderful loving family. He landed in the best country on earth in one of its best states. His opportunities are spelled out for him while also unlimited. 

He could just as well be named Hotep. Satisfied. At peace.

Both of my sisters were living dolls. They had dolls their own size and if they stood still you couldn't tell them apart.

So are their daughters.

Amanda, this child's mother, I used to call "Baby Doll Face" instead of her name. Her face is flawless. 

Oliver, guess what. 

Guess I said. 

     "Okay, what?"

You're going to be fat.