I have three beautiful siblings. Two brothers and one sister. All under the age of 12.
I am the oldest... by a long stretch. To them I am ancient. A boring old grown up who does boring grown up things and spouts boring grown up platitudes like "when you're older, you can do what you like, but in the meantime you really need to get your head down and finish your homework!" and "Don't wish your childhood away... one day you'll look back and wonder where time went".
They grow frustrated when I choose to stay at the dinner table and talk after dinner instead of going to play. They ask permission before they do things (sometimes) and look to me to dish out tellings off if one of them has misbehaved. They like to astound me with new things they've learnt or created or done. They treat me more like a second mother than an older sister.
I was an only child for nearly 13 years and was already a secondary school student when the second-eldest was born. People used to find it so strange... and still do. Three years is a normal gap. Five years is quite big. Seven plus years is a huge gap. But 12 years between your two children? Neighbours whispered and gossiped. Friends at school too. My Dad was once asked outright, "are they both your children?". But that brave soul just uttered what everyone else had already concluded in their own minds.
My baby brother's childhood passed in a whir of nappies, sleepless nights and weekends spent looking after him instead of going out with my friends. As my father's health declined, both parents relied on me more and more to look after him. My teenage years forced me to grow up fast.
Before I knew it I was 17, doing AS Levels whilst learning to drive.. and awaiting the arrival of a bouncing baby sister! The shock was even more pronounced, and people made their disapproval clear. 'Concerned' about the baby, the poor little girl born to an 'old' mother (who was in fact still in her 30s). When I took my sister out to the supermarket as a baby, to give mum and dad a few minutes' peace and quiet, I would get filthy looks from fellow shoppers. Complete strangers looking on in disgust at the teenager and the baby they assumed to be mine. No words, just passive aggression- screwed up faces, shaking heads, flared nostrils and tuts. And at home? More baby vomit, teething, insanity-inducing children's TV... and milestone, smiles, cuteness, love.
I grew up some more. Time has a habit of passing by, and within a blink of an eye I was at university. I moved out of my parents' home for good and jetted off to London like the cliche I was. I sought a life of independence, living not just for the moment, but for the past too. I thought I had so much time to make up for, my teenage years having been consumed by helping to raise two small children. I didn't go wild. I didn't drink or dabble in drugs, but I liked to spend my time socialising rather than studying. In fact, I spent all of my time socialising. And spending like I never had before. London is expensive, let alone living the lifestyle of someone on a £50k salary. Self-absorbed and consumed by what I thought was 'adulthood', I scraped through one year, the terrifying plunge into debt being the true cost of my newfound 'freedom'.
Then summer came by and I revisited my former self. A second mother to my two siblings, relied upon even more heavily than before because now my mother was expecting again. A son.
Twenty years after giving birth to me, my mother welcomed into the world her fourth and final child. A son. My brother.
Fast-forward almost five years, and the family dynamic is unusual... but in the best possible way. My parents and siblings live together (of course) and I visit every weekend. Sunday dinner is a highlight of each week. I play with my brothers and sister, I have adult discussions with my parents. We all laugh together around the table. I take my siblings out occasionally, and bring back postcards and treats if I've been away. They draw me pictures and share their achievements with me.
They might think I'm old and boring but they love me really, and treat me like the second mother I became. Co-workers gasp and exclaim when they discover I have a 4 year old brother. I still get dirty looks when out in public, but not quite so many. Or maybe I just grew thick-skinned. Strangers assume that I'm their mummy, but I'm no longer offended by it. If anything, I'm not-so-secretly proud. If those strangers are judging, they keep it to themselves....
I don't want children of my own any time soon. My friends and colleagues of a similar age all seem to be getting married and/or having babies, and everyone thinks it's just a matter of time. But having spent my early youth being an adult, I'm now just living for myself. I enjoy being a big sister to those beautiful children with their hearts of gold, but I'm no longer raising them. While my peers start on the wonderful journey that is parenthood, I reflect on my past and look forward to what is (hopefully) to come when the time is right... whilst kicking back after work and sticking Netflix on like the free young thing that I am.
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