Birth Order

For most of my life, I took incredible pride in being the oldest sister. (I have two sisters, one three years younger, and the other five and a half years behind me. Yes, my mother had three kids in less than six years. She and my father both worked full-time, too, so she does admit that most of our collective childhoods are "something of a blur.")

For many, many years, I equated "oldest" with "wisest," "most powerful," and "most entitled." (My middle sister is currently thinking that last sentence shouldn't be in the past tense.)

When we moved into a new house, who should have the biggest bedroom? Me, of course. And why? Because I was the oldest. Last piece of cake? Oldest. Right to check the mail, swim in the deep end of the pool and first shot at all gifts simply labeled "for the girls"? Oldest. Oldest. Oldest.

My middle sister still resents the "trades" I talked her into whereby somehow she ended up with my old pack of playing cards missing three Jacks, and I got her newest stuffed animal or Barbie doll. And my youngest sister spent about two years as my personal gopher because every time I wanted something from another room or part of the house, I simply said, "But I'm timing you. Don't you want to know how fast you can go?" (In my defense on that last one, two years? Seriously? You have to admit she had plenty of time to figure out what I was up to.)

Anyone out there who isn't an oldest child (and maybe even some of those that are) is probably having the exact same thought right now -- "Wow, she was evil." But, at the time, it made the most perfect sense to me. After all, I'd gotten to the world first, by the accident of birth sure, but I was still first. These created perks seemed like quite the fair trade for the attention-grabbing and parent-stealing both my siblings had been up to since entering the world.

(One of my favorite home movies is shot right after my middle sister was born. Obviously, my parents were making a tape because they wanted footage of their new daughter in her infancy. It is also quite obvious that this did not go over very well with me. My father holds the camera while my mother shows off Rachael and they talk to each other about how beautiful she is, and blah, blah, blah. In the meantime, I change into every conceivable outfit I can come up with, finally ending up in a leotard and tap shoes so that they will film my dance instead of the baby. I won't even refer to Rachael by name -- in that video she is only "the baby" to me. My father tries to placate me with comments like "how nice" while still keeping the camera most definitely pointed at Rachael. You can also see the wheels turning in my head so clearly, "I can sing, make up stories and tap dance, and all they want to do is stare at 'the baby' who can't do anything yet? What happened to my world?")

Despite the occasional downside (blame for any and all physical altercations, regardless of whether I started it or was even involved), I loved being the oldest sister.

But, as they say, what comes around, goes around. I might have inflicted plenty of abuses on my younger sisters in the past, but their time for comeuppance has arrived. Ever since my third 28th birthday, it has been absolutely no fun being "the oldest sister."

No matter who you are, where you go, or how many years go by, for some reason, people still care about birth order. "Where do you fall?" or "Which sister are you?" are common questions when my family attends an event or I'm with my parents and we run into someone they know from years ago.

And always, before I can get out one of my answers like "somewhere in there," or "the youngest, of course," my mother someone else quickly states, "She's the oldest." (I'm still struggling with whether my mother's other answer of "the unemployed one" is better or worse than "the oldest." I lean towards better because I do think unemployment is associated with youth, but if the conversation happens to reveal that I am both the oldest and the unemployed one, I tend to hide under the covers for a few days afterward.)

Then it hangs there: oldest. Just floating above all our heads -- like crows have just flown out from the corners of my eyes and I should have good advice on whether Clairol or Nice 'n' Easy is better for covering grays. Based on what I see with my grandmother and her sisters, I also know this will never end. God willing I make it to 90, people will still feel perfectly comfortable referring to me as "the oldest one."

So, younger sisters, I think we're finally even. In my mind, having to acknowledge my comparatively advanced age for next 30-50 years more than makes up for all those Barbie dolls and cookie-retrievals.

In fact, maybe I should even get a few more considerations (foot rubs, valet parking, cash) for all the reminders you'll both get about your youth because of it. When it comes to that valet parking, I'll even time you.