When I was three, she stole my birthday. When I was five,  she’d snatch up all my favorite dolls to play with for herself. When I was seven, she ruined our chances of finishing any Mario Bros level because  her little hands couldn’t press the buttons on the controller fast enough. But I didn’t mind. Because, in stealing my birthday,  she herself became my favorite birthday gift. Even though she’d take my dolls,  she’d let me dress her up and play with her hair in return. And her little hands couldn’t play Mario, but were small enough to find and retrieve escaped puzzle pieces  wedged under the low coffee table to complete a wood spotted blue sky.