They would make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and I would always say, “Thank you.” I don’t remember them saying, “You’re welcome,” ever. I don’t remember them not saying it. I don’t remember anything but the sandwich that they made me every day. My sisters never complained in front of me about this daily chore; but, once, I overheard one of them asking my mom why I couldn’t make my own sandwich. My mom responded with “Because she’s the youngest.” Yeah! I’m the youngest and you’re not!
~
I remember her leaning back in her chair every which a way, twisting and straining as she tried to pop her back. I pounced over to her and eagerly assumed my position to stand on her back. I couldn’t contribute too much to the family chores at the time, but I felt that I was the smallest for times such as these. It was one of my small occupations in the family. After all, I was the youngest.
~
They had conversations about future slumber parties with friends—their friends. Of course, I was invited, right? Of course, I’m going, too… I hope… Why are only you two getting out of the car? Wasn’t the slumber party tonight? Why can’t I go?! “Because you’re the youngest.”
~
That phrase suddenly became one that I both hated and loved, depending on the particular situation. I remember daydreaming about how I would be old enough, some day, and how I would do so many things that they wouldn’t allow me to do then. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to be “free” and do what I wanted to do. I’ll show them.
~
Three more came along—miniature versions of my sisters and me. Who are these people? It’s supposed to be just my two sisters and me! Our places are set at the table. Oldest, then middle, then youngest. Everything is thrown off. I loved my little siblings; however, I was the only one that had changed ranks to make room for them, so to speak. My sisters continued to hold their respective ranks in the family. However, I had been demoted. No longer was I the “darling youngest” or even the “annoying youngest sister.” I was just the middle, and the updated middle at that.
~
Children are bathed, fed, pampered—as if the mother is entering them into a prized pig competition. For instance, when jelly is on a child’s face, a mother will immediately jump up to remove it, licking her finger and frantically smudging it across the child’s face, as if the perfection of her specimen is of utmost value. Why doesn’t she leave it? There is nothing wrong with having something on a child’s face; however, every mother has this instinct to remove whatever it is immediately. I’ve never known a mother that has simply grown out of this. They grew out of the action because the child complained about it being embarrassing, but they never grew out of the instinct.
~
There was always someone needed to watch the smaller children. My older sisters were out of the house, getting married, growing up. There was only one child from the older three left, and I was that child. Please don’t be gone for too long, mom. “Thank you so much, baby. It will only be for a few hours. Three hours at the most.” I had been demoted, even further, to the oldest.
~
We watched Dumbo. I mixed up their grape juice and water in a sippy cup. I made them sandwiches and they said thank you. Come to think of it, I don’t remember saying, “You’re welcome.” I don’t remember not saying it either. However, I remember licking my finger to clean the spot on one of their faces and realizing something—it had never been about the chores, responsibilities or entitlements that whoever was in each rank could claim. In fact, it had never been a competition to begin with. It had always been that my family was simply caring for and taking care of each other, in whatever way we could. Suddenly, my sisters did not seem like the enemy. Instead, they seemed to be people who I respected, from whom I could learn something, and who had always been, indeed, a great deal more grown up than I had been.
This story is mostly made up... :/ Gah, this one sucks. My favorite essay from this semester (possibly that I have ever written), "The Realistic View of Love," can never be posted. :/ It's a shame. That was a masterpiece. Maybe I'll make up a pseudonym and try to get it published someday. That should be on the bucket list; twould be awesome. In its place within the next week or so, I will post my summary on Erich Fromm's "Why Love is an Art" essay, which is an oldie but goodie... and only mildly similar to "The Realistic View of Love." I wish I could hide feelings better sometimes. Or at least be more okay with not having to know what I feel and why all of the time. It makes for interesting essays that I'm proud of, but will never read to anyone except strangers.
