“Tell me about when I was born.”
An unusual request from my only sibling. But a legitimate one since my sister is almost 10 years younger.
On a sister’s weekend, we had just settled onto our comfy beds in our room at the beach. Driving rain pelted our windows, roaring waves pounded the beach and the wind whipping around the corner of our room sounded like a pack of wolves. With a forecast of the same tomorrow, we anticipated lots of naps, snacking and talking.
Not anticipating my sister’s question, I went with one thing I’ve always known about her birth. “You were very much wanted.”
On a postcard April day when my father appeared at my fourth-grade classroom, asking to speak to me. He told me I had a baby sister, and he had come to take me to the hospital to meet her.
I went to my teacher. “Miss Bennie, may I be excused. I have a new baby sister.” Tears rolled down my freckled face by the time I said, “sister.”
I had picked out my gift for her—a rubber bath toy of three men in a tub. I insisted that day. My father understood. He didn’t try to explain it would be months before she could play with it.
What she also got with a much older sister was a third parent. I babysat her a lot. I’m sure she saw me as another parent, the extent of which I did not understand until she was a teenager. Then, I consciously began a lifetime of trying (still) not to parent her.
Certain memories make me smile–like the time she found the Vaseline jar. A toddler wearing only diapers, she plopped onto the hardwood floor of her bedroom and greased her entire body and the floor as far as she could reach. The funny part was watching Mother try to grab her. And there was the day she found a miniature frog and staunchly refused to let go at naptime. Mother compromised by putting the frog in a jar (glass in the baby bed!!!) and placed it in the corner of the baby bed. When Mother later checked on my sister, the jar was empty. My sister’s fist clutched a very dead little frog. There was the f time my sister saw my boyfriend kiss me as he left to return to college. I walked back in the house to find a seven-year-old girl with very big eyes. “Did he KISS you?” But any time a date and I sat on the living room couch, she magically appeared between us.
All times were not great; after all, she was human. I remember her dropping a tube of red lipstick down the skirt of my new yellow dress. My protests were met with “She’s just a child.”
She was 8 and I was 18 when college and career took me away for the most part. I missed a great deal of her life. She did live with me and had a summer job for a few weeks. She was in my wedding. But our lives continued on separate paths until our father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. From then until our Mother’s death more than 15 years later, we worked together to care for them. My parents designated both of us with power of attorney for them; something most people say should not be shared. Our father made us promise we would not fight about them during the years that lay ahead. Little did he know that we both had enough of him in us that fighting wasn’t our nature. Of course, we both made mistakes; we did not agree on everything; we second-guessed ourselves about their care. Big Sister, Third Parent appeared sometimes. But we didn’t take it out on each other.
As we both head toward being “little old ladies,” the years between our births shrink. The age difference diminishes. We know each other as grownups. Our differences are surface; our sisterhood is deeply embedded.
I don’t just have a sister; she is a sister. And in this, her birth, month she is still wanted—now more than ever.
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