My oldest stands at 6-feet tall and wears a size 12 shoe. He has one year left living at home — a thought that breaks me and leaves me in denial about how fast time really does fly by.
Through the years, he’s taught me more than anyone has about life, love, and parenting. But mostly, he’s taught me about myself and there’s so much I want him to know.
Like how hard it must be to be the one who sets the tone for his younger brother and sister. I realize it’s a job he didn’t ask for. He used to hate it when he’d realize they were going to bed later than he got to at their age.
He notices how much is put on him by default
His age makes him the one who is in charge when I leave. He’s the one I go to if I want to know something about his brother or sister, and I think he has insider information.
He’s the one who has to go through all the firsts. Like when he started school, and there wasn’t an older sibling to tell him that he’d be fine, to tell him the best days to buy lunch or who the nicest teachers were.
When he started sports, there were no previous games he got to go to to see how things worked. His siblings got to sit on a blanket, eat french fries, make new friends, and look forward to the days when they got to play. They had some time to see what was what so they could choose what was suited for them.
But the oldest has to go it alone and see what fits and what doesn’t.
It’s good but also terrifying
But now that he has all that life experience under his belt because he’s 17, it’s an unwritten rule that he shares knowledge and support with his younger siblings, even though there wasn’t anyone doing that for him. He’s expected to share all things, from food to friends.
We tell our older children to act right and set a good example because their younger siblings are watching them. It’s true, of course, but being the middle child, I have no idea what that kind of pressure actually feels like. I don’t know what it’s like to be reminded there are eyes on me, and my mistakes could follow me around in the form of younger bodies wanting to be like me.
Our oldest children stumble around with us as we are trying on motherhood. They feel the bumps. They are the ones who have to remind us what’s important. They are there to witness the try-ons, the mistakes, and the guilty hangovers that being a mom for the first time bring.
They break us in and teach us how great parent-child love really is
They listen to us worry and feel the blanket of overprotectiveness we throw on them all the time, because we just aren’t sure how this is all going to go and, damn, we want to get it right.
It’s been a few years since my son has reminded me I was harder on him than I have been on his siblings. He doesn’t compare bedtimes or talk about the fact they got cellphones at a younger age than he did. He doesn’t mention how I’m more relaxed about what they eat, and I let them hang out with their friends more than he was able to.
And I can see that’s a part of being the oldest: letting things go and just accepting this is your role. In a lot of ways, you're helping the whole family by being a little bit of an experiment.
And if you ask me, I think that’s pretty amazing
So, to my oldest child: I’m sorry that life is more unfair for you than it is for your brother and sister. I’m sorry you didn't have someone to ask about firsts and get as many breaks.
I’m sorry.
But it was never intentional, and I have to say, you’ve endured it all and turned out beautifully.
