One of my first memories was the time my sister was born. No, I didn’t actually witness her coming out of the womb (as her sister, that would be disgusting, especially considering I was three years old at the time). I didn’t even go to the hospital where it occurred. I just recall that one day: my parents went to the hospital, and I wasn’t allowed to go. I headed over to my friend’s house next door to spend the night. I don’t remember much of the details; it was just a matter-of-fact event at the time, not an emotional thing that called for much observance.
The next year was more vivid. My grandparents came over from China to care for the infant. I remember the chubby pink bundle lying in the crib or bouncing in her high chair. I remember posing for a photo with my grandmother on a couch as she held my sister Elaine. I don't, however, recall the moment I learned her name was Elaine. It seems so ancient a fact that I've always known.
When I was younger, I resented my parents and my sister for their flagrant “mistreatment” of me. I’d randomly burst into tears as my mother hugged my sister, and I would complain that she treated my sister better than she treated me. When we fought and sometimes literally clawed one another over the same toy, my mother's interference would involve futilely persuading me to give the toy to Elaine, and, when I proved unobliging, forcefully taking the toy and handing it to her. Those were the days she would eagerly meet me at the bus stop after school, to my chagrin, and lead me back to our home--how dare she do that, acting as if I didn’t know my own street address.
When I was in second grade, my mom got pregnant again with my brother. I was excited. People I knew and encountered in life had baby siblings, including my best friend who had a baby brother. I was a nice, little girl back then who liked babies, not the sulky teenager hiding in her Tumblr hole, the person I am now.
As a larger family, we needed a bigger house, so at the end of my second grade school year, we moved to the Johns Creek area. My sister and I were a few years older now and could play more together without erupting into a heated row, but arguments still ensued as often as the sun rose and set. Many times I would stop playing a game with her because she wasn’t doing things the way I wanted her to, and then she’d burst into tears and tell on me.
My brother was born in the June of 2008--again, I was not at the hospital the day it happened. My sister and I stayed at home with our paternal grandparents.
The relationship I have with my brother, from the get-go, was noticeably different than that with my sister, though the relationship between my sister and my brother often mirrors the one I had with my sister in our younger years. As I was eight years older than Albert (he was named after Einstein), I was never really the fervent playmate. For the first few years of his life, before he could do hardly anything besides eat and cry and eventually crawl and waddle, I mainly watched over him when given the task. It was the most interesting and boring assignment--occasionally Albert would do amusing things, despite not being able to talk, such as once bashing his head continuously on the couch pillow while making weird noises. But at the same time, well, watching a baby unable to talk can become tedious when there’s not really a huge exchange of ideas through conversation.
When Albert learned how to talk, sometimes it was more interesting to play with him, take care of him. Still, our age difference was too vast for me to be entertained by him. My sister and him started to play together more, and that was fine by me. I assumed a role as a rather more distant, occasional playmate.
The resentment I had towards my sister over better parental treatment is now echoed through my sister’s complaints to my parents about my brother. How he never seems to get in trouble even when he really deserves it, so much so that he now intentionally avoids a scolding by scrunching up his features and fake-crying, in order to elicit sympathy. How my parents never call him down to help with the dishes or sweep the floor or clean the house, and how she seems to be always over-burdened by chores, tipped and almost falling of the far end of the scale. How Albert begs so persistently for my dad to buy him whatever he wants--be it new Pokemon cards or candy in the store--that my parents always empty out their wallets for his desires. I sometimes complain about this too when I try to get out of doing chores, but not very often. We have such a large age difference that it my parent's optimal treatment towards my brother didn't strike as close to my core as how they treated my sister. Still, I sometimes see my brother as spoiled, as is often in the nature of younger siblings, but there's nothing really I can do.
It is worth mentioning that my sister does not hate my brother, and it’s not like I do either. We have, however, taken a habit of playfully teasing him all the time. Calling him weird nicknames, constantly reminding him that he’s the youngest person in the family. Gosh, it sounds so cruel when I type it out like that, but really, we are very good-hearted until Albert starts kicking and hitting us.
In recent years, when my brother would come home from school, he sometimes would complain about nobody wanting to be friends with him during recess, and it’s the worst feeling in the world. It’s part of the fact that I watched him grow up perhaps. As the youngest child and the only son, he can be quite a spoiled, haughty little kid with ego and pride, but flaunting arrogance is not uncommon at all in little children. I know that when I was in second grade I thought I was better than everyone else, and only later did the world humble me--only later did it expand beyond the neighborhood streets to span a more global society. I’m not trying to excuse his arrogance at all--it’s one of the things that annoys me the most about him in our skirmishes--but Albert is humorous, playful and even generous to those he cares about.
A few things I've learned from being the oldest sibling: one, your first times are much more clouded with uncertainty. I was the first person in my family to start middle school, and I had to rely on the advice of friends who knew more about the experience, rather than direct advice right from the family, whereas for my sister I was equipped to tell her myself all she needed to know. Also, parents usually take younger siblings' sides in fights, especially if they are under the age of ten--it's an unspeakable truth within the family sometimes, because mothers and fathers do this without meaning to hurt older children. I used to complain a lot about being the oldest. But as ages even out, and younger children mature and take their own responsibilities, and what can seem like lopsided treatment evens out for the most part. Older children tend to see younger siblings as spoiled, as well. I felt this when I got a phone only after I finished middle school, yet my sister got one at the beginning of middle school. I suppose that sometimes younger children see their older siblings getting things sometimes and their youthful hearts can't help but desire it themselves. Most of all, I get very protective of my younger siblings, and I hate to hear any mean words hurled against them. Because in the end, despite the endless skirmishes and disagreements and jealousies we may have, love runs deeper.
