“Whatty, let’s go look at the a’mals!” Nicolas called out as he grabbed my hand and dragged me with all his three-year-old might across Target.

“Hold on, you’re too fast!” I shrieked back as I pretended to run full speed behind him.

He stuck his little tongue out and toddler-sprinted his way through the store, blond hair flying backwards, with an arm stretched out to the side in an attempt to keep himself upright with every flat footed stomp. Surprisingly, we made it back to the plastic animal toys without having to nurse any scraped knees, and we even avoided the poor toddler whom he very nearly t-boned at an intersection.

“The a’mals!” he shouted.

We sat in the middle of the toy aisle for a while and lined up the little horses, followed by the giraffes, followed by the rhinos, followed by the elephants, until he eventually relented his spot in front of the animal bins to the same curious toddler he almost destroyed not 15 minutes earlier. We returned to the animals countless times by the time we finally left with what I needed. (Which, might I mention, was merely lotion, chap stick, and then a wayward rhino who found his way onto the checkout belt.)

Oh, the things you do for love.

I was almost 14 when my mom and stepdad revealed that they were going to have another kid. Although I hoped for a sister--you can’t blame a girl for trying, and besides, I had four other brothers at this point--we all had the feeling that he would be a boy. It turns out we were right.

Although I had hoped for ribbons, bows, and braids, three and a half years later, I wouldn’t change having another brother for the world.

The best part is that I can actually remember him being a baby. My next youngest brother is a mere four years younger than I am, which means I can’t really remember tormenting him. (Just kidding. If you ever read this someday, Kurtice, I distinctly remember taking your helicopter with the little magnetic cars in it so I could play with it on the roadmap rug. I also remember you sitting on me until I gave it back, so I guess we’re even.) With a brother 14 years younger than me, I got to experience what it was like to basically have a kid without having to go through the financial, emotional, psychological, or physical strain.

Okay, so it was nothing like having a kid: but it was also nothing like having just another younger brother.

I got to experience his ‘witching hours,’ not to mention all of the explosive diapers, his first words, his first steps, the first time he tried to pronounce my name, and the countless times he went through ‘sensory experience stages’ and smashed various food substances into my hair and clothes. Some people don’t get these experiences until they’ve actually had a kid themselves, and in my honest opinion, I think it’s something that everyone should experience. Even just being an older sister, let alone a mom or a teen mom at that, is a lot more challenging than I expected. You have to be a babysitter, a role model, a giant hand wipe, a toy, a kleenex, a diaper changer, a savior from the monsters, and an animal holder. Sometimes you laugh, and almost as often, you cry.

When the judgmental old ladies at Toys ‘R’ Us shoot you dirty looks for having a kid so young in life, you’ve got to learn to roll with the punches and prove to them that you’re the best danged mom they’ve ever seen.

Most of all, you have to be a friend.

There are some times that you won’t want to read that picture book again. You won’t want to watch that episode of PJ Masks for the fiftieth time, you won’t want to try to convince him to put on pants, you won’t want to help him wipe after using the bathroom, and you won’t want to make yet another peanut butter and jelly.

All he knows, though, is that you don’t want him. However, there will come a time when you’ll miss the PJ Masks theme song, and yeah, even the butt-wiping. So even if you have to drag yourself off that couch to rush to the bathroom and save him, just do it. Hold his hand when he gets scared, make a game out of putting on those blasted socks, and use cartoons or a book as an excuse to get some more cuddles in. He’ll crave your attention, and someday, you’ll crave it right back.

I didn’t realize how much I would miss my baby brother until I left for college. I could text my other brothers and send pictures and videos back and forth. I wouldn’t be as surprised when I came back home and their voice dropped another octave and they stood another head taller than me. (Although I would still tear up a bit.) With Nic, every week that I was gone was another milestone that I missed. I cried when we had to video chat on his birthday rather than hug in person. I cried when he asked if I had “gone home to my new family.” I cried when he asked if I’d come home tomorrow, when I knew I couldn’t come home for a month. I cried when he nonchalantly spelled his name for me over winter break.

Not all of our memories together are perfect. There’s a fair share of tears and irritation sprinkled in amongst the laughing, the giggling, the cuddling, the games, and the tickles. Sometimes I go to bed wondering if I was really the best sister I could have been while I was still living back home. I wonder how he would have turned out if 15-year-old me wasn’t as angsty, if 16-year-old me wasn’t so emotional, or if 17-year-old me wasn’t so eager to leave.

But then I remember all of the animals we played with. I remember the PB&Js we’ve shared. I think about all of the times I somehow managed to convince him to wear pants. I remember the times he lept into my arms, sleepily curled up next to me, or gave me giant, open-mouthed kisses on the nose.

I remember sprinting down the Target aisles, and I remember our car ride home afterward.

“Did you have fun, Nic?” I asked.

“Mhm,” he replied as he distractedly slid his new rhino up and down his calf. Then he turned to look at me, furrowed his brow a little, and said, “I love you, Whatty.”

I tickled his foot.

“I love you too, Nic Nic.”