If I had any doubts of my qualifications to be a big sister, Emily dispelled them on Day One. All the foolish anxiety immediately dissolved when I cradled her fragile body in my arms. Her eyes were still slightly swollen from birth, and she did not open them despite the dimness of the room. Her soft skull was encased in a blue and pink cap, her tiny body enveloped in cotton cloth. She was so small, and the world was so big. I vowed that day to shield her from harm. I vowed that day to be a big sister.
~~~
If you had seen me before the birth of my sister, you would’ve abhorred me. No level of tolerance could prevent a normal being from describing me as obnoxious, atrocious, and beastly. People ran out of synonyms for “bad” and needed thesauruses to describe the half-monster that I was. (Now that I think about it, I don’t know if the “S” I received in citizenship was for “Selfish” or “Spoiled.”) However, my days of being a profligate brat were numbered. When books containing some rather “gross” pictures of female anatomy appeared around the house, I began asking awkward questions. Then my mom finally broke her silence: she was having a baby.
I remember running up the stairs, screaming, “YEEEEEEEEEEESSSSS!” The careful reader may respectfully interject at this moment and ask why I would be so elated to be a big sister, having spent the first twelve years of my life drowning in undivided parental attention? Well, the key words here are “undivided parental attention.” Every day the conversation at dinnertime would inevitably turn to me, and both mom and dad would simply stare at me, the center of their world. If anything, I mused, my sister will be an absolutely delightful diversion.
Emily came like that, October 24, 2001. After that day, my entire life became one huge, diaper-ridden tornado. I had asked my friends for advice on being an older sibling, but most of them shrugged, their little brothers and sisters born when they were two, not twelve. The first few days, while my sister and mom were still languishing in the hospital, I thought my big- sister duties would probably be confined to merely ceremonial tasks in the new court, like kissing her daily on the cheek or tucking her serenely sleeping self into bed. Occasionally I would hold the royal bottle, but I would balk at changing the royally smelly diaper. What I got instead was a rude awakening, literally. Her cries were like sirens in the night—incessant wailing that warned of a hunger emergency or “dirty” bombs. Though I could find some shelter from the destruction by smashing a pillow against my ears, no amount of pressure could completely muffle the sobs emanating from the thin walls. For a while, I slept (or tried to sleep) this way, but as the days wore on, her crying wore away at not only my sanity but also my hardened, selfish exterior. I eventually realized that taking care of a baby is like fighting a jungle war—one needs to get down and dirty. Thus, I started doing what I would never have done twelve years ago—I took initiative and accepted the burden of responsibility as a big sister. I began changing the diapers. Oh, those stinky bags of filth…I could not believe such a sweet baby could produce such mounds of excrement. Besides the diapers, Emily had the amazing talent of reversing gravity—what goes down, must come up. I quickly learned that being a big sister meant swapping out name brands for bland t-shirts that could withstand the impact of a spit-up projectile.
Thankfully, in daylight things were much more bearable, mainly because I could actually see what I was doing instead of stumbling around in a half-dead state of sleep-deprived stupor, trying not to bump into my equally exhausted parents (who at this point still bore an uncanny resemblance to the mummies on late-night National Geographic television). Though I deemed it impossible, there were eyes to the hurricanes; those pockets of peace are what I remember the most. One image particularly sticks out in my mind—her first smile. I was bottle-feeding her that day, sitting cross-legged on the bed so she could lie in the space between my legs. Somewhere during the feeding I conceived of the brilliant idea to wiggle the bottle a bit when it was in her mouth to see if she would laugh—what I got, of course, was a wide-open, toothless grin. The milk came pouring out of her mouth and down into her chin, but no matter. The dreamy look in her eyes and the expression of pure happiness on her face was pure love. I loved her back.
On the outside, I was elevated to the rank of “big sister,” imbued with new duties and higher status. On the inside, I was deeply humbled by my little sister, who had to accomplish so much with so little. Her undying perseverance to learn how to walk became a living symbol of inspiration for me—no matter how many times she fell, she would get right back up again to resume the laborious process of traveling from Point A to Point B. Moved and motivated by her indomitable spirit and energy, I pushed myself further in school and athletics. When, in running a meet, I felt the drive to continue drain out of my body, my thoughts turned to Emily, and how she always charged ahead despite incredible odds. Revived, I resolved to keep running, to never give up hope. That day, I ran a time that was my personal best and the fastest 800 meters in our school that year.
Accomplish so much with so little, indeed.
~~~
Having a little sister can be a surreal experience sometimes. It’s two different worlds, the line between the past and the present blurring constantly—you watch videos of the Beginnings of the American Revolution at school, but at home Nemo and Barney dance across the screen. One minute it’s coloring the Euro/African Theater map of World War II, the next it’s the Hello Kitty Coloring and Activity Book (holiday version!). Spelling out the multiple causations of the Great Depression, spelling out “Wedsday” and “Dady.” Back and forth, in and out of my past…and her future.
It’s not hard, then, to figure out why I would be so protective of her. Why shouldn’t I take the opportunity to smooth out the inevitable bumps along the road? This was my chance to truly make a difference in someone’s life, and I was not going to let it slip idly by. I felt an obligation, in fact, to teach her, because she had already taught me so much. I would share my knowledge and hope that she could thrive.
~~~
Emily has a knack for drawing. Turtles, for one, cannot be colored only green, for orange, blue, and red as well must be used for the fullest effect. Butterflies, by golly, need to carry a palette of pink, purple, and plum, but not blue, for then “you can’t see them in the sky and then they will be gone and not pretty anymore you see?” (Yes dear, I see) Unfortunately, not everyone else saw the world as she did. It was a show-and-tell day at her school—Emily had brought a “crayon creation” to share with her classmates. I do concede that the flower petals were a bit lopsided, the butterflies didn’t look quite so realistic, and the accepted colors for grass and sky were reversed, but why criticize creativity?
When I returned in the afternoon, though, my precious sister’s face was framed with anything but her usual ebullience and enthusiasm. Apparently, the kids at her school dismissed the merits of her drawing because of the blue grass and green sky. I was left with a very dejected toddler who, with drooping shoulders and downcast eyes, told me that maybe she should color the grass green next time.
Who would have thought? Four years old and having to deal with the weighty issue of preserving individuality. Here she was, budding artist, her own tastes about to be weeded out by some arrogant bullies at school.
Well, Emily, don’t let those people tell you what to think. Believe in what you love the most, and pursue it to the fullest. There will be times in your life and people that you will meet who will try to dissuade you from your passion and lead you off the path on a road to ruin. Stray not from yourself, don’t be afraid to stand up and say no! For if the grass is blue in your world, so be it. Color your world in any way you want, Emily, and be proud of what you have.
~~~
It’s inevitable, but I try not to think about it too much. College is slowly creeping into my life, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I trade in my spacious bedroom for a cramped dormitory. The physical change, though, troubles me little compared to how my sister will fare after I leave. In a way, life goes on, for her and for me. She’ll be too little to understand why her sister will be gone, why her best friend won’t be there to pick her up from school anymore. Four long years. It might not seem like a long time to you, but just think: those four years will make up half of my sister’s life. There stands a chance that she’ll remember me, but it won’t be the same. Will I become yet another picture in an album? A voice over a phone? A line of text on an email? How can it possibly be the same? You can’t give a hug over the phone. You can’t gaze into a picture and, no matter how hard you try, see the light in someone’s eyes. You can’t.
Sometimes, late at night, I still despair. I go downstairs and sit next to my sister on her bed, just watching. Lying there in her slumber, so peaceful, so unknowing of what is to come. I slip my hand into hers, and she lets out a little sigh, her hand suddenly gripping tightly to mine. The memories of the hospital come flooding back: I see myself rocking her to sleep, I see myself gently stroking her hair, I see her crawling, walking, then running into my arms. Yet Emily, oblivious to it all, still sleeps on, dreaming. I wonder what she dreams about—if she even has dreams at all. I want her to keep dreaming, never to know the truth, never to discover the evil and suffering of this world. She shifts her body, her hand slowly slipping out of mine. I hesitate, wanting to hold on, wanting never to let go.
As I turn, I see a picture hanging on the wall. Though the light in the room is dim, I recognize it as a picture of Emily and me walking along a beach.
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