Screaming. That’s mostly what I remember. Screaming and bright lights. A hospital hallway and the harsh smell of disinfectant. A birthing mother screaming so loud it shreds eardrums.
My earliest memory is of a birth — not mine, but of my little brother. I was almost three years old when Chase was born. I had been convinced the entire pregnancy that this baby would turn out to be a girl and that her name would be Addie. Well, toddler me was dead wrong, and my brother was indeed a boy who would not be named by an overbearing two-year-old.
I remember being so excited to be a big sister, even forcing my grandma to buy my new baby brother a gift from me: a stuffed Dalmatian from the hospital gift shop that he claims to have lost somewhere in his tornado of a room.
Growing up with a little brother can walk the razor-thin line between tears and laughter. There were times when we would purely communicate in screams and kicks, but there were also times when he would silently hand me a cookie he made or ask me about his Spanish homework. Most siblings know this dynamic all too well, the joys of sibling rivalry.
When I left for college, our relationship slowly, very slowly, moved past the teenage screaming-match phase and into a more “friendly,” mature relationship. We shared a side hug before I walked out the door, and he wished me good luck. When I arrived at my dorm I texted him, teasing that he couldn't help move me in because of his broken leg. I imagine that was the one time he was grateful for those crutches.
Watching him grow up and create his high school memories from another state sometimes makes me feel like I’m no longer a part of his life like I once was and that maybe I wasted all that time fighting with him over who got which Xbox remote or who needed to do the dishes for nothing. Maybe I should have set a better example of how to talk to our parents about the important stuff or find what’s meaningful to him. I overthink how I could have been a better sister and what I should have done differently.
Then he sends me an Instagram reel.
And another.
And then another.
And then one more.
And then I remember we live in the digital age when he can call or text me anytime he wants. That thought eases my stress, especially when he calls me to tell me a story about our dad doing something insane or asks for my opinion on his many teenage romance woes.
Watching him grow from the newborn I held in my tiny arms to a grown man with dreams and aspirations reminds me that I’ll always have a built-in sidekick to talk to. I’ll always have a holiday karaoke partner and Madden rival. It also means there will always be someone to fight with over who gets the last sweet potatoes at Thanksgiving or who has to take the dog for a walk in the rain.
So, being an older sister does suck, but not because of the name-calling or the fighting. It sucks because one day, not too long ago, I had to leave and watch him grow up from afar. I didn’t get to tease him about his driving lessons or take his homecoming photos for him. I heard about these things over the phone and through Instagram memes.
Being an older sister sucks sometimes, but it’s also a whole lot of fun if you have the right little brother to do it with…
Don’t tell him I said that.
Natalie Gordon is the Multimedia Editor for The Beacon. She can be reached at gordonn26@up.edu
