Big Sister Syndrome
Does anyone else focus so much on others, that you forget to take care of yourself?
I was in line at a Starbucks behind a mom and her five kids, ranging in age from 11 down to 5. The oldest four were all girls but the youngest was a little boy, spinning in circles. From tallest to shortest, each kid told the cashier what they wanted- pink drinks and vanilla bean Frappuccinos. When the little boy didn’t say what he wanted right away, all four of his older sister turned to him and said his name in a frustrated tone. He looked up at the menu confused. I don’t blame him. The Starbucks menu can be confusing for me and I’m a 25-year-old woman who goes at least twice a week. While the stressed mom looked through her purse to find her wallet and pay for the six drinks, the oldest sister realized her little brother’s lip was starting to tremble while the rest of his sisters stared at him impatiently, waiting for him to make a decision. The oldest sister saw her youngest sibling in distress and left her position as the oldest next to her mom, down the row of sisters and crouched down next to him, placed her hand on his back.
“Do you know what you want to drink? You like hot chocolate, does that sound good?” The little boy nodded.
“Can we have a kid’s hot chocolate too, please?” The young girl asked the cashier. The cashier nodded and accepted the cash from the mom.
“There’s no need to feel bad,” the oldest said to the youngest as the middle sisters followed their mom away from the cash register. She once again placed her hand on her brother’s back, gently guiding him forward.
I smiled to myself beneath my mask because I recognized myself in this young girl. At no more than twelve years old, she recognized her little brother’s distress and immediately acted, knowing exactly what to say to make the situation better when her mom was too busy to handle the situation.
It’s a big sister thing. It reminded me of the time when I was eight and my triplets siblings were five and my family went to Hershey Park. We all dressed in yellow in case we got separated, we would be easy to see in a crowd. The benefit of having a family of six is that no matter what size the rollercoaster cart is, no one ever has to sit alone or with a stranger. We pair up in twos or threes. But when the cart is a two-person ride, that meant I was paired with one of the triplets. I was the oldest and the tallest by at least six inches. Katie decided she wanted to go on the Super Dooper Looper, a ride that- perhaps rather obvious given its name- has two loops de loops on its course. No one seemed to realize that before we boarded, however. I was paired with Andrew on this go-around. As we left the station, the coaster started clicking as we ascended our first hill. About halfway up, Andrew started screaming. I thought he was simply nervous about the drop and placed my hand on his, which was clenching the handrail. He continued to scream through the rest of the ride, and I spent the entire ride turned to face him, trying to convey that everything would be ok. I was so focused on making sure Andrew made it through the ride without losing his tonsils, I didn’t even realize I had gone upside down. Twice.
Grown-ups would always say to my mom, “She’s so mature for her age.” Hearing this filled me with pride.
“Fits right in with the adults.”
“Such a smart girl.”
I felt special. I wasn’t just a kid. I was on equal footing with the grown-ups. At family gatherings, I would stick with my mom, more eager to listen to my aunts and uncles share the family gossip and share stories of their shared history than to watch my older cousins play video games or the younger cousins play with toys.
The other kids in my grade weren’t mature for their age- they didn’t need to be, a majority of them were younger siblings, not older. They didn’t have the responsibilities I had. I thrived on being helpful and resourceful.
At four, my parents would ask me to bring them one of the triplet’s binkies or to grab the diaper that fell on the floor.
“Thank you, Julie, you are so helpful!”
I quickly started to anticipate my parents’ needs- as I got older, this meant filling in words when they had a brain freeze, making home improvement lists, collecting Christmas gift ideas from my siblings.
Every action, requested or not, was matched with a, “thank you, Julie, you’re so helpful!”
Those six words became my lifeline. I needed to not only make others’ lives easier, even in the smallest ways- I needed the validation that I had a purpose.
As an adult, I have noticed a number of my female friends and cousins that have younger siblings also suffer from what I call, Big Sister Syndrome. Even as kids, we assumed the feminine responsibility of taking care of our families. We help cook, we help clean, we look out for our little brothers and sisters. But we aren’t mothers and we can’t get boss them around as a mom would.
When I was twelve, I was deemed old enough to babysit the triplets and the high school girls down the street no longer came by after school to watch us. The triplets were independent, and there was only a three-year age difference between us. They didn’t need me to watch them, just make sure they didn’t catch on fire or run away.
“Stop trying to be the mom.”
“I’m not! I’m asking you to help me clean the house so mom and dad don’t get mad when they get home!”
“You’re not the boss of us!”
“Actually, right now I am! I’m in charge which means you have to listen to me!” I yelled back at the trio in front of me. “Would you rather wait until mom and dad come home and are mad at us to clean?” I didn’t understand why they couldn’t grasp the concept- if we cleaned up the house now, our parents would be happy with us when they came home, and thank us for taking initiative. If the house was a mess- with dirty dishes in the sink, dishwasher full, legos and Polly Pockets strewn around the playroom, laundry to be folded on the coach- they would be stressed and spend the whole night trying to get the triplets to do what I spent the whole day trying to do and when they were stressed, I was stressed.
“You’re bullying us!” Andrew shouted.
“Julie’s a bully, Julie’s a bully!” David started chanting, Andrew and Katie joining in. They ran upstairs and into the boys’ room, locking it behind them just as I closed my fist around the doorknob.
“This is the Julie Hate Club!” David said through the door. “No Julies allowed!”
Tears stinging in my eyes, I retreated from the Julie Hate Club entrance and went back downstairs, assessing the now monumental task of cleaning the first floor, without my strategy of one room per kid. I started with the dishwasher, emptying the clean dishes, and climbing up on the countertops to put away the top-shelf items. Once the dishwasher was empty, I loaded it back up with the dishes of that day’s breakfast, lunch, and snack times four. Vacuuming the carpeted rooms was next, lugging the machine up from the basement. When I got to the living room, I realized I needed to pick up before vacuuming and collect all the pillows and toys, DVD cases, and stray items from the floor. I occupied myself by being useful and tried to stave off the feeling of being the one-child that stood alone.
As I have grown up and moved out of my family home, I have learned that the only thing I can be responsible for, is my happiness. My self-worth cannot be tied to other people’s assessment of me. I have value beyond what I do for others.
