Parenthood
I am the oldest. Oldest sibling. Oldest cousin. Oldest niece. Oldest granddaughter.
I was the first continuation of my family’s bloodline. In my veins, unspoken promises flowed and danced around my newly birthed organs. Hope and desire weighed upon my undeveloped brain. Generations upon generations look to me to honor their past history. I was to carry the burden and beauty of being the oldest.
But I was not the last. It was my responsibility to make sure I wasn’t, to continue our legacy. To make sure the childhoods of my similarly-aged relatives were satisfactory to the people who brought them into this world. Though I was never directly told this, it was always assumed. I would be mature. No matter my age, no matter my state, I was always to be beyond my years. For I was burned with unhealed scars the minute my first breath was made. And the expectation was for me to learn how to tame those wounds because my parents never could.
One of my earliest memories includes being a mother. I was at my grandmother’s house, with charming wooden chairs and a red rooster delicately painted on her favorite serving dish. The gloss never faded from her assortment of pans and plates stained with memories and mistakes. Well, it is not my memory. It is a story made to ease tension when the subject of my contributions gets recognized. Something to laugh back on, hoping humor will save the loss of comfort. My mother and grandmother have told this tale numerous times. Each time with a pitiful smile on their face.
“You came up to us and started crying. We were obviously confused and you told us you didn’t want to be a mommy anymore. Oh, you were such a poor thing. Take care of your brothers. I just felt horrible.”
This is when I like to question whether they chose to be oblivious for their own relaxation or the genuine obliviousness of a tired caretaker. I do not know which was worse. But in no way shape or form am I taking away the sacrifices my mother and the women before her have committed for their offspring. They had to protect their kids. But I was a kid too.
My parents were also both the oldest. My father comes from a rundown neighborhood in Philadelphia. Each home was made up of the same foundation but littered with its own junk and actions. Stuck together in the glue of poverty. His mother was sickened with mental illness and his father was angry at her fear of life. My mother lived the more generic suburban type of life. A small community in New Jersey. Her mother stripped her of her humanity and turned into a robotic housewife. Her father is also an angry man with high-quality requirements. She and her sisters are on display in the world of fake bonds and wealthy sneers.
I cannot blame them for the mistakes they made. It was their first time living there. But again, it was also mine. They were good. I would say the better side of parenting. Only tiny things kept me up at night. Little cracks of disappointment and judgment. Walls only whispered, didn’t scream. Maybe because my treatment was so neutral, my mind was forced to find something to truly delve into. It just chose wrong.
With my mix of backgrounds came an easiness. We were financially stable, and always had something to do, but had enough conflicts to lead a balanced and true life. It wasn’t as dirty as my father's and not as artificial as my mother's. I was always a good kid. Straight A’s with an occasional B, committed to a sport in which I was skilled, surrounded myself with good people, and rarely rebelled. I think I needed something to set off the balance. To create havoc that may be horrible, but at least different. I yearned for chaos. Something that would set the sky on fire.
And of course, my home life was not the best. I could drone on about my father's alcohol abuse and brief absences leaving my mother distressed and taking it out on us, but I won’t. I was their first child to parent. We were both new to our situations, but I would be lying if I said I do not resent the way my father uses a calm tone with my youngest brother and the way my mother worries about him. Though I am ultimately glad. At least my experiences didn’t go to waste.
As I became a role model for my younger relatives, I also became a protector. My twin brother Liam is 6 minutes younger than me. I joke that I have always been faster than him even though he is now twice the size of me. He was born with autism. It was high functioning, presently only affecting him in small social cues and academics. But as a kid, it was tough for him. He learned to talk a little later than others which always gave him a slow start. And with the lack of communication came anger. Anger for not knowing how to put emotions into words, nobody could hear you. Many can relate but not many have the physical restraints he did.
Nonetheless, he survived. Not without challenges but he did make it through. Every day I am proud of him for it. During those times, I would be his mouth. I was the one who heard him. My parents thought we had twin telepathy. Frustrated gurgles of tears to them translated to misunderstood sentences to me. But I was never his voice. He always had his own. People just couldn’t understand it as well as I could.
I would never take away those memories even if I could. We have a bond that not many others possess as complicated as it is. But being that I was his main communicator, lots of his life aspects blurred into mine. Questions of whether he was okay with this color train, or what had happened at school to permit a phone call became a substitution to questions regarding my well-being. Sacrifices for siblings should be made, I am a heavy believer in that. But not to the extent of complete loss of control of your own life.
Soon unconscious worry sept into the smooth indents of my mind. The questions my parents asked about him were now embedded in my routine. I felt as though I was responsible for all of this. To make sure he was calm and comfortable. To make sure his math homework was done. To make sure his friends were being nice to him. My schedule became overbearing as I picked up his. He deserved and needed help, but another child with other problems may have not been to best-suited idea.
We then have my youngest brother Luke. He has always been quite the character. Confident and stubborn, much like my mother, but also quick to blow a fuse, much like my father. There is no doubt he is the favorite. As more moments are piled into my parents' life they learn how to grow. They then use those skills on Luke. These skills have been obtained from their failures with my twin and me. But even with Liam, it’s different. He has always had extra help. Yes, this help was needed, but when he grew out of it it never really went away. The expectation that I was to make fewer mistakes as I didn’t have the same mental challenges he possessed stuck through our later childhood. Since I was objectively more academically intelligent I would have to be something bigger. And Luke completely skipped this. He brought my parents a fresh start.
I will always care for them. I will always worry. But I wish I didn’t have to. The exhaustion from taking on others’ lives at a young age is destructive. It became toxic. I hated them at points. Hated how they would never care for me like I did them. That when my youngest brother would call me “mom” by mistake my heart dropped. But when those daggers exited his mouth, he felt no sharp pain as I did. That is how my twin will always come to me with his problems, too afraid our parents will shun him. How I was there for him when he got bad. Did they think the same of me? Of course not. They never had this responsibility. And I cannot put them at fault.
But I do have to thank them for one thing. In which I, literally, owe my life to them. They are the reason I kept myself alive. During a dark period in my life, I was lost. During silent and eerie nights I stayed awake praying to god I would feel differently. I’ve never been religious. I would slash at the air with my tears screaming and begging for an answer to why it was me. Choking and wheezing for some sign of release. My heart stretched until the tension broke which led the cycle to violently repeat. But I knew I didn’t have an option to give up. I had to be there for them. Who would have baseball catches with Luke after school? Who would help Liam with his math homework? Me. I needed to. It was my job. I did not have an option to choose the easy way out. But god did I wish I did.
I’m happy now. Those years of my life were undeniably hard, but I came out on the other side with new meaning and understanding. I no longer resent them. When people say you can’t love someone until you love yourself, they are right. Now as I am content with myself and who I am, I have the space to genuinely care for them. To enjoy the moments shared together. Instead of thinking of it as a burden and responsibility. They are my favorite people and will always be.
I am the oldest. Oldest sibling. Oldest cousin. Oldest niece. Oldest granddaughter. I am not a parent.
