When I was two years old, my sister was born. The time leading up to that event, I wanted a little sister the way- just a few short years later- I wanted a puppy. And I really wanted a puppy. But I had begged my parents for a little sister. I wanted a little sister, a partner in crime, someone to really eat the fake meals I whipped up, with the rubber food in my play kitchen; someone to hide in the coat closet with me and jump out and try to startle my mother.
I wanted to have an actual, living breathing person at the tea parties- not just my 8,000 dolls who sat stiffly in their chairs. And I got one. I got a lifetime pal.
But when my sister was born, I was too young to be conscious of all the glaring, profound subtleties of having a brand new human being enter the world so close to me. I wasn't capable of taking note of milestones, or if I had- remembering them. Plus, we were peers. But at 11, I could feel the palpable difference between child and newborn, and what it means to be responsible for someone else who can't be responsible for himself.
With the scary way our "health" teachers talked about pregnancy, I always assumed that raising a kid was akin to some form of modern slavery, set in a poorly-lit apartment in a bad part of town. I also assumed it meant never having even an hour a month with which to get one's roots dyed. Always having to wear long jeans that buttoned a comfortable 8 inches above the bellybutton, and always needing a giant stroller that never folds up in a useful way. Not to mention, everyone knows diapers are so expensive, you'll be using food stamps to buy them in no time. (All based on what I heard in class, saw at the mall, Monday night made-for-TV movies, and my vivid 6th grade imagination).
Being a parent is so hard. It is. Like it was for my own mother, who made motherhood seem... frantic, by her constant state of worry... Worry, and the byproduct of it: exhaustion.
But as an attentive and sensitive tween, the rhythm I developed for caring for this new sibling seemed to erase my scary notions and I slipped into the role of protector. I learned to anticipate when my baby brother was going to spontaneously nose dive from the couch for a toy on the floor, I learned to catch him with one arm. I could anticipate when he was about to reach between the bars at the zoo; when he was contemplating a grab for the vase, high up on the table. I saw when he oh-so-quickly snuck between everyone's legs, into the open refrigerator, and took a swig of rubbing alcohol- and leapt for him before he could drink more. I could almost smell when he was about to throw a tantrum, straighten his legs and arms and lock his joints so no one could move him away from the playground. And when he sliced his foot on the old chair's exposed upholstery staple, while playing a game of hide and seek-- and he let out one of those silent but piercing, tearful, incredulous, pained wails-- I grabbed him, wrapped his foot and carried him to the car in a matter of seconds.
I was also there for every Christmas pageant, show-and-tell, science fair, art fair, jazz band concert, field trip, and yes, even parent-teacher meetings.
And the new responsibility had broader effects.
Having a little brother with an 11-year age gap, has given me certain perspective on men. I can't help it. I see them, when I peer at most any of them, as a smaller, younger version of themselves. Sometimes the image hits me within minutes: little league, video games, doting mother, quiet father, missing front tooth, bowl haircut. Or sometimes it's more subtle and takes time-- but the little boy almost always shows himself- even if for just a moment.
And I cannot walk down the street like a normal person (first of all, dogs. Must pull over and scratch belly)- because of children. Endearing children with mismatched socks or riding with training wheels or talking to oneself cause me to stop whatever I'm doing to strike up nonsensical conversation. Sometimes the child is intolerable and I dole out my death stare and the child pipes down. All children are inherently good, and even though death stare mostly works, I have been yelled at by a mother for it. But I digress...
Watching the news. Susan Smith. I was 15 when that story broke and I cried for 2 weeks straight.
Nothing seemed quite the same after I became a quasi-mother. Especially since we found out my brother was going to pre-school and telling everyone that I was his "real" mother, and he knew this because he "remembered being in my belly." That launched all kinds of loaded stares from teachers and parents. But I assure you, he was mistaken. He also thought "moms pooped babies out of their butts," so how credible was he, really?
And so, 17 years later, I'm thinking that raising a kid gets much more difficult as he gets older-- it would seem the opposite, since when they're younger they need extra care-- but I think it's for that very reason that it gets more heart-breaking, and therefore arduous. He now needs less care. We know we're supposed to let him go, be on his own, and yet even more is expected of him from the world- won't he need us?
And the problem is, I still see the little boy in my now 17-year-old brother and I see him getting ready to go off on his own. I see him eager to explore the world outside our small town, but also apprehensive about it. He'd have to leave the place where someone (almost) always caught him when he fell...
I know, I know, that's how life works.
Anyway, I tell you all of this to say, I am physically exhausted from 17 years of worry-- about whether or not my baby brother will fall down the basement stairs (again), whether he'll get kidnapped by a pedophile, whether or not he's still disappointed he didn't make Little League MVP when he was 8, whether he swallowed his pet worm (named, "Mildew") when he swallowed that handful of dirt, whether he'll choke on a chicken McNugget, whether he'll make Principal's Honor Roll- not just plain ole' Honor Roll, whether he'll get in the "right" school, or meet the "right" girl, whether he'll be a healthy man, and is successful at what he sets out to do, and that he's happy, ultimately, I hope that he is happy...
And so I'm not sure I could willingly sign up for this again. If I have kids, I'll be starting over and frankly, that thought just makes me sleepy.
But maybe I could raise a family that way... tired? Maybe, with my own children, with my future family, I'll be like "yeah sure go ahead, eat some dirt." Maybe that's why some moms are like that- their Worry Jar is tapped out- so worn it's got holes- no way to retain the new worries. She knows everything is going to be fine, whether or not the kid
actually
ate
a mud pie.
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