Don't Hold My Coat

Walking into Meijer last week, Jeff and I watched a little pair of kids trudging past the produce, ostensibly to catch up with mom.  Little Guy was about six, with a round pie face and an endearing cowlick waving in the breeze, and his Big Sister looked around nine, with a serious expression and her hand firmly gripping the collar of Little Guy’s coat in one hand and a bag of oranges in the other.

The pair would have brought an “awww” from anyone, but Big Sister’s intense expression made me look twice.  She was obviously very young herself, but she clung to her little brother’s coat with an air of purpose.  The Little Guy fixed his eyes solely on his bag of M and M’s, which he was already blissfully eating, and allowed himself to be directed around the asparagus. 

She has to look out for him, I thought.  She’s holding his coat collar because he’s little, and she’s charged with making sure he makes it across the grocery store in one piece and doesn’t get abducted or wander into the aisle with the floor cleaners and accidentally open a bottle and drink it.  She’s thinking all these things, this small cherub – she’s actually little too, but by default of being born first, she’s already old and burdened with many cares. 

The adjective “oldest” ages the first kid before her time.  Even if she’s still a baby herself when the next kid comes, she’s always “bigger” and, consequently, has more to do.  Nothing has actually changed about that first child when the blanket-wrapped bundle arrives home from the hospital, but she’s definitely much more capable of getting her own glass of juice and putting on her own shoes than the baby is.  So it starts early.  “Can you help Mommy and get a diaper for BooBoo?”  

I was that kid.  I held onto the coats and the collars and tied shoes and changed diapers and gave up the last Oreo and the better pillow and served myself last.  The boys always tried to wrestle without fighting and I would nod sagely and then proceed to yell at them.  “You always fight for real!”  They never listened, and always punched too hard and cried and occasionally knocked the wind out of each other.  And I stood by, righteously aggrieved.

Oldest kids own it.  They’re told that they can do more and be more and handle more, and they believe it.  They’re perfectionist and driven and pretty pleased with themselves.   They can take care of anyone, and whenever a crisis arises, they’re all over it.  It’s the way they were trained.  They hear, “Of course we always knew you’d be fine…we never have to worry about you – you’re good at whatever you do.”  

It leads to a taut personality, a personality with ropy-muscled arms formed from constantly tugging at loose ends.  No rest, or something might get lost, might slip away.  No one’s protecting you, so you must be ever vigilant.  If you don’t get the oranges, NO ONE WILL.  And what will happen if there are no oranges?  Despair, ruin, devastation across the land!  Dear God, I thank you that I am not young and helpless.   I am strong and ready to carry these oranges.

You both resent and pity that Little Guy, whose collar you are clutching.  Must be nice.  He just walks around Meijer, concerned only with his bag of M and M’s and whether he can watch cartoons when he gets home.  Someone else worries about where Mom went and that you’re supposed to find her in the baking aisle.  Someone else has to figure out where the baking aisle is.

But what would happen if you stepped back?  If you didn’t scan the floating ceiling signs with an anxious knot gathering in your stomach, looking desperately for the “Oil, Brownie Mixes, Chocolate”?  Meijer isn’t really that big.  Eventually, you’d find it.  And what if you didn’t?  Would Mom get in the car and leave you there?  Most likely not.  That’s what the loudspeakers and nice salespeople are for.  

And what makes you assume that Little Guy is oblivious?  Maybe he already knows where the baking aisle is.  Maybe he doesn’t need anyone to hold onto his coat; he has no intention of wandering, and is fully capable of making it to Mom in one piece.  If you forget oranges, you can eat the apples at home from last week.  Maybe he’d like to slow down and talk about how he likes kiwi, and can we get those instead?  Maybe he’s just really annoyed that his self-important sister is making this such a big deal.