I am the oldest. I was the first to make my parents into parents. The first to go to kindergarden. The first to have a sleepover. Get braces. Get a perm. (Equalling the most awkward girl in her middle school.) Have a boyfriend. Get a curfew. Break a curfew. Get caught drinking. Not get caught smoking. Go off to college. Go to medical school. Get married. Have children.
And I’ve never known what it’s like to not be able to do something that my sister is doing. (Until she could go on trips and stay up late and sleep in and I had to, well, BE A MOM. But I still got to do those things FIRST.) We are five and a half years apart. I never even had competition. What do I care if she got an Very Good in spelling in fourth grade when I only got a Good? I was a sophomore in high school by then. I had SPELL CHECK. And BOOBS.
I don’t even remember fighting with my sister. Or teasing her. Or hating her. (Although I do remember inviting her to play WALK. What’s walk? It’s when she had to walk between the living room couch and the glass table as my friends and I tried to trip her. In my defense, if a friend had tripped her WITHOUT my express permission, I would’ve KILLED them.)
I guess that is what younger siblings do. Admire. Tolerate. Trust. I don’t know. And I worry about this NOT KNOWING.
Because when I take E to soccer, I don’t understand what it’s like for N.
On the outside. Looking in.