Big Sister

Marshall woke up this morning with a howl. I am not quite ready to greet the day, so I try snuggling under my covers to comfort him. Next I try the pacifier, his blanket, and cuddles. Then soothing words and pats on his back. But he is inconsolable. Finally, I enlist Adella.

“Adella,” I call. “Marshall’s unhappy. Can you please come into Grandma’s room and make him happy?” Marshall stops crying when he hears me call Adella’s name.

“Sure,” she replies. Sure is one of her favorite response words to requests. Although she has learned to mimic the inflection of a preoccupied adult, her sure has sincerity. I hear her little feet running down the hall. Marshall turns his head, listening and waiting. She comes into the room. In a split second Infant Hyde becomes Infant Jekyll, all giggles and smiles.

“Mar-shall,” she sings. His body wriggles happiness. My bed that had seemed a prison to him seconds before becomes a playground. They play together amid the hills and valleys of my comforter.

I rely on Adella. I am grateful she takes seriously her role as big sister. She is Marshall’s comforter when he cries. She is his protector when he is in danger, whisking away small toys, marbles and pennies. Above all, she is his spokesperson, informing me when he needs a white cupcake with sprinkles, wants to go outside to play on the slide, or needs an adult to pick him up when he has awakened from his nap.

Marshall, for his part, is enamored of her. He babbles at her as he watches her from his high chair perch at mealtimes. He laughs at her antics. He patiently endures her ferrying him from place to place. And without much coaxing, he will follow her up a flight of stairs. Unlike Adella, he is not interested in playing in the bright sunlight on the landing or surveying the neighborhood from the window. He is just interested in being where she is.

As I watch their dynamic, I am reminded of the Kindergarten journal of her Uncle Nathan that I unearthed from the bowels of my basement a few days ago. (Is it a tribute to my motherly sentiments or a condemnation of my hoarding instincts that I still have these journals twenty-one years after the fact?) Given Nathan’s prodigious output in these journals, I presume the students were assigned to write and draw every day in Mrs. Harris’s class. Given the formulaic nature of his daily entries, I also presume Nathan’s creativity was somewhat limited by both his spelling ability and his lack of syntactic prowess. Most entries read, “Guinea pigs (or dogs or cats or flowers or rainbows or football) are nice. I like guinea pigs (or dogs or cats or flowers or rainbows or football). My sister likes guinea pigs (or dogs or cats or flowers or rainbows or football).”

For Nathan, it was his big sister who was the arbiter of taste. Not me, his mother, nor his father, nor his best friend Matt. It was she who he wrote about day after day. What she thought mattered in his five-year-old world. (I confess, however, that I suspect that after a few months, Nathan started dialing in his entries—I know for a fact that as a child Chrissy never ever liked football.)

Big sisters, whether they are three or thirty, watch out for little brothers. Like her mother, Adella has ably assumed her role as big sister. Marshall, too, assumes his role as her companion, observing and learning. Me? As their sometime caregiver, I assume the role as facilitator, balancing the needs of them both. As I referee each interaction, I hope to subtly nourish their sibling bonds.

“Under the arms. Carry him under the arms, not around the neck.”

“Don't cry, Marshall. Adella still loves you. She shut the door because she needs some alone time.”

“No, Marshall can’t have a cupcake.”

“Gentle, Marshall. Don’t pull Adella’s hair.”

“Are you sure you did not just wake up Marshall? Why don’t we let him take his nap? Maybe I can play with you.”

Ultimately, I am a grandmother. I might spend time each week wrangling Marshall and Adella, but I am not their mother. It is my job to trust. To trust that I did my job when I reared my daughter and sons. To trust that I taught my children to love and respect and depend upon each other, to be a good big sister and little brothers. And to trust that my daughter will teach her children to do the same.