I was 6 years old when my sister, Joyce, was born. Dad used to sit on a chair in the kitchen to hold her until his arms would give out. He'd say to Mom: "you'd better take her now". So Mom would go over and take Joyce from him. 

Joyce was a beautiful baby.  Blonde hair and blue eyes. When she found her thumb she slept for 19 hours. Mom was concerned but the doctor told her not to worry.  When Joyce got hungry she would wake up. When Mom fed my sister she'd push her in the carriage over a bump in the floor.  Joyce was very spoiled.  

We had a long hallway in our house and Joyce would try to crawl down the entire length but she would get tired and fall asleep halfway down.  My Mom would cover her with a blanket and tell everyone to look out for the baby.  

One day I walked into the living room with my doll all wrapped up in a blanket and my Dad thought I had taken Joyce out of her crib.  When Joyce first learned to climb she got up on the couch when my Dad was out of the room.  When he came in he immediately put her down on the floor. When he turned around she got back up. Then he realized the baby was doing it and not us.  Joyce and I shared a room.  When she was old enough she was given a bed rather than her crib to sleep in. I used to get her and put her in my bed with me.  Every time Dad came in to check on us he put her back in her own bed. 

Having my sister was like having a real live doll. I watched her a lot.  However, when she got older I always had to have her tagging along with me.  If I tried to make her behave Dennis would hit me. I didn't like being the middle child.