Sister-Baby

My sister was 5 years older than me.  At 17, she had her driver’s license so she took me places my mother asked her to.  One such night, I had an urgent request to go to the most elite social venue I had at 12, the mall.  The trend of teenagers going to shopping malls on Friday night paralleled the cruising of the 50’s and 60’s. By 1983, my friends and I would meet up at the movies and then, at no charge, wander around each store admiring all the clothes and shoes.

     This night, my sister pitched one of life’s curve balls straight into my 12-year-old mitt.  She was pregnant. “Oh, that’s just great,” I thought. How embarrassing for me.  As a pre-teen, the universe revolved on the axis of the planet Me.  A normal egocentric response exploded in my brain. “How fat was she going to get? I knew this was going to happen sooner or later.  This is what she gets for being so rebellious and crazy.  But, I’m a good girl. Really, still just a girl. What will people think of ME?”

     All of my fears were realized one by one.  My nice friends from nice families started to find out about her.  There is nothing like bringing a friend home with your very voluptuous pregnant sister their first sight as they walk in the house. Humiliating.

     As she grew bigger and bigger, however, I actually got jazzed a bit. I had no idea the amount of work and emotional energy it took to take care of a child.  I just wanted to play with that darn baby.  After all, no one wants to do the work when the playing is so much more rewarding.

She actually waited until my mother got ready for church that Sunday. She knew my mother would have been in a panic and needs to get her hair and make-up complete.  When mom was ready to go out the door for church, there she was, waiting there in all her pregnant glory, ready to go to the hospital.  That is all I remember about her labor and delivery.  I only knew that she was going to give birth at the Military hospital because she was still considered a dependant with full medical benefits.  Her little dependant came not much later. 

 Lindsey Ann.  At 17, my sister loved the Bionic Woman star Lindsay Wagner.  She became Lindsey with an “E”, not Lindsay with an “A”.   These minor nuances of her name became her first right as a mother.  It was probably one of the first decisions that she ever got to make completely on her own. 

Lindsey Ann was a bit on the small side, as I remember.  Her nose was comparable to the complete surface area of my pinkie fingernail.  I came home from my school day later to see my mother holding her on the same couch my sister had perched earlier. This was a much more pleasant welcome home.  I quickly learned that Mom was sucked into the baby care role and out of the one of being my mother for a while.  When this little wheel squeaked, it required a steady stream of grease.

Lindsey smiled every time I played with her.  When she was 4 months old she started up with a full-belly laugh that I could produce on cue.  Her legs and arms we pleasing to hold in my hands, so soft and pudgy.

 I became a teenager just before she was born. Clearly, able-bodied to help with a baby, my services were offered anytime I was home.  Feeding her, changing her, singing and rocking her became my hobby.  Other girls were learning how to cheer at football games; I was doing raspberries on a sweet belly full of love. 

I gave her endless bottles of milk and pats on the back.  My mother taught me these intricacies of loving a baby.  There was one simple rule:  nothing else mattered. Keeping Lindsey loved up and happy was our whole home’s focus.  Most of the time I loved it.  Sometimes, it got a little inconvenient. 

My mother struggled with assisting my sister with Lindsey, at the same time, still trying to parent her and me.  I watched my mother revisit the familiar pattern of caring for babies.  I also watched my big sister become sleepless, irritable and yet, still have normal adolescent tirades. 

One night, I was sleeping and that precious baby girl started crying. Thirteen and very sleepy, I was knee-deep into a dream. When I realized that the cry I was hearing was a real one, a live one, from the room down the hall, I went to her.  Once awake, I tried to figure out what was going on. Was my sister having trouble? Did she even hear her? Where the heck is Mom?

Lindsey’s cry became frantic and constant.  Down the hall in the pale pink and white room, she was wailing in her crib. The moon that night gave me just enough light to see.  She was crying so hard her little eyes were sealed shut in her effort to be heard, with tears running down her cheeks. 

“Hey! Anyone? Hey!” I screamed.  Then, I just decided to take measures in my own hands.  No one else obviously was going to do anything to take care of her. No one else seemed to even hear her.  Scooping up her little pajama covered body heaving with tears and sweat, I held her small head close to my neck. “Shhhhh. Sshhhh. Let’s go get a bottle.”

I walked by the living room and noticed my sister completely asleep. By what measures she was so asleep so as to not hear her own baby crying, I don’t know.  I just needed to get a bottle made and quick.  Getting her to calm down and drink some warm milk made my frustration to melt with each ounce she guzzled.

  Rocking her in a dead quiet house in the middle of the night made me realize that babies demand that you grow up.  You have no choice. You have to take care of them before yourself.  Surrendering to giving comfort to a child in the middle of the night allowed me the privilege of seeing someone outside of myself be happy.  My purpose was seemingly clear, at least for those moments. She needed me. I came. I rose to the call, not for glory, but for her. 

Placing her back in her crib, peaceful and full, she slipped back into sleep. I did too. I was different somehow, though. 

She demanded that I become something else that night instead of just me, myself and I. The pride I felt for the care I gave transformed me.  I was needed, not the needy. I intended to stay that way for the rest of my life.

  I also made conscious choices to love compassionately the innocent. I was an innocent girl taking care of another girl; we were in this together. Lindsey was my first “baby”.  She was not a doll nor, was she born from me.  She was my little sister-baby.  Growing up came quicker when I had someone else to think about. I became inspired to be available to her and provide some kind of direction.  Living beyond myself as I was trying to grow into my own life made me understand the profound joy of giving.