Confession No. 1: I’m jealous of my 2-year-old brother.

I’ve always felt like the mediocre, boring child in the Liu family. My older brother now goes to Harvard and had a 2400 SAT score; my younger brother has cuteness and a fanclub.

Confession No. 2: I’ may be partially responsible for my brother being born three days early.

I was 13, right on the border of teenagerdom. I was stubborn and stupid, refusing to accept the drastic change about to happen in my life with a little brother on the way.

On that fateful evening of May 19, 2012, I came home late after a volleyball tournament. My parents had just returned from an evening stroll in downtown Los Gatos, which had ended abruptly after my mom started cramping.

“Ariel, I think Timothy is coming,” my mom said. “We’re going to the hospital tonight.”

In my irrationally hormonal state, I decided to throw a tantrum.

“I don’t want him to come!” I screamed, as though my mom could actually do something about it. “I don’t want things to change.”

Sobbing, I ran out of my parents’ bedroom, down the hall, into my room, and slammed the door shut. I then proceeded to go to bed, one of my methods of dealing with anger.

As it turns out, my tantrum angered my mom, and not long after her water broke.

I woke up in the middle of the night to a silent household. I called my dad, panicking about why my house, normally hustling and bustling with Asian relatives, was suspiciously quiet and empty.

“Dad?” I asked, my voice penetrating the darkness of my living room. “Where are you guys?”

“Ariel, your mom had the baby. She’s fine, and we’re all in the hospital,” came the reply.

Oh, I thought. Change is inevitable. With that thought, I went back to bed.

The next morning, I went to the hospital with my family to visit Timmy. I was fully prepared to walk into that hospital room and sulk in a corner, giving my family the silent treatment while they gushed about Timmy. But then, I saw his face, red and swollen but so beautiful.

Being the notorious “thirsty” girl I am, I also posted a picture of him on Facebook, which received a whopping 44 likes — the most I had ever gotten on a photo. This, some would say, was the beginning of my jealousy.

Much of my resentment stems from the fact that my friends seem to love Timmy more than they love me.

One friend, Falcon news editor senior Sherrilyn Ling, has three times as many pictures of him on her Snapchat stories than she does of me. Another friend takes pictures of him and sets them as her phone wallpaper. When my brother decides to actually contact me, his most pressing question is, “How’s Timmy??!!?” These people have known me since before Timmy was born, yet they seem to prefer his company over mine.

In actuality, I can completely understand why some would find Timmy so appealing. He’s  apple red, and has super pinchable baby fat-filled cheeks. His constant chatter and infectious laughter frame his silly, hilarious personality.

At the same time, my friends (with the exception of my brother) have never seen Timmy at his worst. They’ve never been woken up by him at 7 a.m. on a Sunday by being slapped on the head. They’ve never been peed on, they’ve never had their homework torn to shreds. They’ve never had to endure his whining, tantrum-throwing presence on a 13-hour flight to China.

It’s only been two years, but I hardly remember the days when my living room floor wasn’t covered with toy cars and train tracks. Prior to Timmy’s arrival in my home, I had never had the exceedingly pleasant experience of being barfed on. At the same time, I’d also never experienced the type of pride I felt when he took his first steps or learned how to say my name.

Ultimately, I think the joy Timmy brings to my life outweighs the envy that I feel. Although he may treat me as a punching bag, he knows how to comfort me when I’m crying by pretending to cry with me. He’s the only brother I have left at home, and I know that once I go to college in a couple of years, I’ll be missing out on most of his childhood. For this reason, Timmy is almost bearable. I’ve learned to appreciate the time I have left with him, even if most of it consists mostly of being his punching bag.