My little rascal has had quite a share of posts. The reason is simple. He is the love and joy of my life. He is the one I write about. He is the one who melts me. He is the one whose five words run the entire household. He is the one who gets images and song lyrics and metaphors.

I do have another son. An older one. But I don’t write about him.

I don’t dedicate posts to him. I don’t describe his words or his habits or the way he enters a room. I don’t talk about what he does to my heart. I don’t mention him by name or by reference or by anything. He is absent from this blog the way background noise is absent from a recording. You know it exists. You just don’t notice it.

And that is because I don’t like him.

Yes. I don’t like you.

Gotcha.

I know you have been reading. The keyboard is placed in different positions every time. My blog traffic shows that my posts were viewed when I was not on my laptop. And the browser history. You didn’t erase it last time. You forgot.

But I don’t. I never forget you.

I might not have dedicated posts to you. But I never forget.

When I first received news about you arriving, which came through a letter delivered by a stork just like you did, I was not happy. I was not joyful. I was in a place I never knew existed. I usually take my sajdat shukur whenever things like this happen. But this time around, the joy didn’t take me to the ground. It took me somewhere else entirely. It took me to a whole adventure. And in that adventure, I lived an entire life with you.

We rode bikes and fell off them. We wrestled and I let you win. We fought and I didn’t. I wore the Zorro costume and you wore your Link costume and we had a sword fight in the living room that ended with a broken vase and a mutual agreement to never tell your mother. I bandaged your knees when you were injured and told you it was nothing when it was something. I taught you the night before your test after reading pages of the material. I didn’t get angry when you failed it and blamed my teaching, despite me winning teacher of the year award twice in a row, and despite you sleeping halfway through. We flipped pancakes and I ate all of the ones that didn’t make it because of you. I made you eat caviar, grasshoppers, ostrich, and a long list of things you will never forgive me for. I was there when you left us to study abroad, hiding my tears from you. I was there when you returned with your degree, showing my tears to you.

I went with you when you decided you wanted to marry the love of your life despite me not approving. And not because she was ikhwanchiya u ma tadri. But because I wanted you to be sure. Double sure. Triple sure.

And because I didn’t want to lose you.

You called your mother first when you had your firstborn. But you lied and told me I was first. You tricked us by naming him a name other than mine, then surprised me later when it turned out to be mine. Even spelled like mine.

You took care of me when I was sick. You pushed my wheelchair to the mosque. To the jam3iya. To the chalet. To everywhere I used to walk to without thinking. You took care of me like no one ever did. And whenever I told you go home, don’t stay, you told me that I was your role model and that I was the person who wrote the book “Guide to Taking Care of Your Parent.” You listened to every story as if you heard it for the first time. You reminded me to read المعوذات and athkar al-masa wal-sabah. And as my tongue became heavier, you always reminded me to say أشهد أن لا إله إلا الله وأن محمدًا رسول الله.

You are sneaky. You always will be sneaky. And you will always be my first.

Don’t tell your little criminal brother.

But yes. You are my number one. No matter what and how many will come after you, inshallah.

Now close the laptop. Delete the history. Or if you are using incognito mode, do not close my other opened tabs because I probably forgot to save.

And go to bed.

Goodnight.