I’m flanked by them in most pictures. Perched atop a yellow parking curb in swimsuits and sneakers, we squint and smile for the camera, a mix of frizzy curls and stray hairs haloing our faces. It’s Memorial Day weekend 1986, and we’re minutes away from learning that Hands Across America will not solve the problem of hunger. But in this shot, we’re full of hope and sisterly adventure, and my diaper, bulging beneath my swimsuit, is, well, full.
In a photo from the previous year, the three of us pose in leotards, showing off our splits atop a gymnastics mat that’s covering shag carpet. Only Sienna, the middle sister, is a gymnast, but I’ll give it a try soon, and promptly quit. She can keep the hand chalk and stubborn wedgies. But I know exactly why I’m smiling in this picture. I can feel it blooming now in my chest, at forty-two: Safe. Complete. We’re all doing the same thing together.
