At 30, I’m About to Become a Big Sister Again
It’s great, but it will certainly be different
My dad’s partner is, at this moment, in early labor, and as I’m nowhere near the country in which they live, I won’t be around when the baby comes home. With the pandemic, I’m not even sure when I’ll be allowed to fly there to see them.
Of course, big-sisterhood will be different this time around regardless, and I’m still working out how I feel about that.
When I was small, I was that child who needed a little brother or sister and started asking for one as soon as I knew what babies were. My parents finally delivered on my demands when I was six, almost seven, and I was very actively involved from the beginning.
My mom was pregnant, it turned out, with twin boys. I chose their middle names, had a say (sort of) in where they would be delivered, and spent the months in advance of their birth knitting baby booties and painting onesies.
I was determined to be the best godd*mn big sister that there had ever been, and my parents took me to one of those classes at the hospital for parents-to-be where I could learn to hold them, diaper them, and perform infant CPR.
I was ready.
When my brothers were born, I was there in the hospital room. I got to be the first one to hold my second-born brother and cut his umbilical cord. I have always maintained that despite the boredom of the labor, that day they were born was the best of my life.
I was actively involved in raising my brothers from the very beginning. I was mostly homeschooled for their early years, so I was around a lot. I was the automatic babysitter and interim caretaker. I was the referee when they got mad at each other and the comforter when needed.
I assisted in their dance and gymnastics classes and helped teach them to read. I helped them make birthday gifts for each other and Christmas presents for our parents.
Sure, they were also annoying twerps who once poured a bucket of ice on me when I was in the shower, but they were (and are) mostly great.
My mother accused me a few years ago of believing that I was a better mom to my brothers than she was. It was a funny thing for her to say, and I may have inappropriately laughed at it and whatever anger she was at that moment displaying. But she was also right.
I did consider myself to be a big part of their parenting, and I did think that I was in many ways better at it than she was. Is that fair? No. Is it true though? Maybe.
Those boys were my babies, and as they grew up, I cried at each of their theatrical performances with a combination of pride and grief at how they were growing up.
Today, they’re twenty-three, and at least one of them could kick my *ss if he wanted, and still, they’re my little guys.
This new baby will be my third little brother, but the first little brother of the two no-longer babies I helped raise. I know they’re both excited, and I am too, but I find it interesting how different it is for me this time. Unsurprising, of course, but still interesting.
I feel no need to parent this new sibling. I know they’ve got it.
And I’ve faux-parented enough kids (and adults) at this point that I think I can avoid hijacking another one and instead wait for my own.
The truth is too, with us living in different countries, I won’t be around for all of those little moments. It’s sad, but it’s true.
Despite technically being an older sibling, my guess is that I’ll turn out as more of an aunt to this little boy.
If I’m being really honest though, I’m somewhat afraid that he’ll grow up not really caring about me. That he won’t see me as an important part of his life. So perhaps this is why my brain has decided on aunthood or why it feels more like a couple of my best friends are having a baby.
We’ll see what actually happens. In the meantime, I’ll stop thinking too much.
I’m happy — for them, for myself, for my little guys who will soon be big siblings for the first time.
And of course, I’m looking forward to the baby pictures, videos, and video-calls starting in…the next twelve to thirty-six hours?
