On the Difficulties of Parenthood, as a 22 Year Old with No Children

When most people my age talk about motherhood, they are either complaining about their own mothers or expressing the means to which they go to ensure that they don’t soon become mothers.  If they are talking about their own experiences as mothers, it’s in reference to brand-new babies, who they can dress up in cute Halloween costumes and show off in adorable Instagram posts.  They rarely talk about what it’s like to raise a twelve-year-old seventh grader, unless of course they’re in conversation with me.

To be clear, the seventh grader in question is my younger sister, and I am not raising her on my own.  Though they joke about being hands-off with their third child, my parents are very much so involved in my sister’s life.  My mom still has a mini-van so she can cart around gaggles of girls to their favorite store, Ulta Beauty, and my dad is still the assistant coach of the church basketball team.  However, since moving back home after graduating college, I find myself thinking more and more about where I fit in the raising process.

The transition from college to home has not been seamless.  I went from spending the majority of my time with other people my age to spending the majority of time with a twelve-year-old who talks almost non-stop about two things: makeup and Tom Holland.  If you don’t know who Tom Holland is, I envy you.  People are quick to call me a “great sister” for doing, in my opinion, not all that much.  Yes, I attend her school events and softball games, but that doesn’t mean I don’t find them, at times, painfully boring.  I take her places, such as to the movies, but when I do, I am often reminded of how little we have in common.  Half the time, when she’s sitting next to me in the passenger seat of my car, she’s using slang terms that may as well be a foreign language and then laughing when she finds out that I don’t speak that language.   Her typical concerns involve who dissed whom at lunch and whatever drama is happening in the YouTube makeup tutorial community.  She never seems to be at all concerned with what I want her to care about—her Spanish grades.

Sometimes I catch myself trivializing her problems.  She complains about having too much homework or unfair teachers, and I laugh because it is funny.  She truly doesn’t know how good she has it—I swear the amount of homework that she gets per night is nowhere near what I was dealing with when I was her age—but I do have to consciously take a step back and try to put myself in her shoes.  It wasn’t all that long ago that I was her age: insecure, awkward, and dealing with the emotional turbulence that comes with puberty and makes your world feel like it’s falling apart.  All of a sudden your parents are annoying, your friends have changed, and, once a month, you cry over nothing.  It sucks, but it’s all a part of growing up, and that’s what my sister is doing—growing up right before my eyes.

At the end of the night, I’m usually the one to make sure that my sister actually goes to bed.  She’s supposed to be asleep by eleven, but I don’t think she’s actually done that since she was eight years old.  Typically, when I chastise her for being up too late, I say something along the lines of you need to go to bed, it’s not healthy to not sleep, and she just says “it’s fine.”  On some level, I think I also know that it’s fine.  I certainly ignored my bedtime for most of my childhood, and I like to think I turned out okay, but this doesn’t stop me from maintaining my hardline stance on the bedtime issue.  I think this is partially because I know she’s getting older, and she’s starting to need me less and less.  Making sure that she actually gets some sleep at night is one of the ways I feel I can still be useful in her life, and, who am I kidding, I like authority. 

Recently I was out to dinner with my mom, a friend, and a friend’s mom.  Both my friend and I are the firstborns, and our mother’s were talking about being hands-off with their younger children.  My mom quipped, “Lauren is doing a fine job raising this one.”  I know it was a joke, but it did still make me feel oddly proud.  To think that I played any part in raising the beautiful, confident, and completely unique child that is my sister fills me with joy.  I know that I’m not a parent, but I have been there for her first words and first time on a two-wheeler—I actually tried to teach her myself with the “tough love let go of the handlebars” method.  It did not work.  I’ve endured countless school concerts and dance recitals in which most time is spent watching someone else’s more talented kid.  I like to think that I understand, at least a little, what it’s like to watch someone grow into the person they will become and to be not only invested but also enjoying every step of the journey.  There are times I find myself saying or doing things, the same things that annoyed me when my parents did them.  It’s hard to watch someone you love walk down a path that you know will lead to failure or heartbreak or even just extreme future embarrassment, but it’s amazing to watch that person fall down, dust herself off and just keep on walking to the beat of her favorite song, Toto by Africa.

Big Sister and Little Sister, First Day of School, 2018