I’m sure when my Mom and Dad had their nine children, they weren’t thinking of the decades of harm they were doing to the oldest daughter. Having a big family is such an incredible experience. It really is. However, the problems inherent in being the oldest daughter in such a family are really unique.
When I left the house, the only part of adult life that I didn’t know about was sex. I knew about budgeting, money problems, feeding, dressing, shopping for, and entertaining children and adults alike.
My hobbies were baking, cooking, cross-stitching, reading, and (when I could get out of the house) running, biking, and playing my musical instruments. I did actually love taking care of my siblings. I hated cleaning the house, though. That was my job, too. Yuck! Cleaning the toilets used by six little boys could qualify as abuse, if you ask me.
The last sibling born was my brother, Ben. He called me “Mom” half of the time. My name was hard for him to say. My brother David was the same. They were practically my kids, post-birth.
I loved these kids like crazy. I still do. They are married with four children each, now living in different states. But, they are close to my heart in a big way. I travel to see their children, spend time with them, and see their Dads in them. I feel like a Gramma, not an Aunt. I don’t care.
I see the way my little nephew “performs” for me when I visit them. He has to be the center of attention. He loves music and he loves to hike with me. He is usually stuck to my side. I see another of them and his sassy, ornery nature. It makes me so happy to see my brothers happy and well, with littles of their own. Oh…and amazing, intelligent, independent wives.
— Back to the Mothering Bit —
I left home at 17 to go to college. It was very clear to me that college didn’t matter as much as finding a nice boy to marry did. I knew what the standards were. I followed them. I just had to find a boy that matched them. 8 months later, I did. Not long after, we got married.
Why was being a “Mom” at an early age a problem? Let’s see:
Mothers are:
- Always looking out for other’s safety, health, wellness, and extraneous needs.
- Problem-solvers, doers, and fixers.
- Asked to be always forgiving, loving, nurturing, and caring.
- Called to put their needs AFTER the needs of their children.
- Usually sleep-deprived, sometimes desperately so.
- Aware of, and concerned about the welfare of their children.
- Usually doing many things at once and comfortable doing so.
Disclaimer: This is the kind of mother that I was taught to be…the kind of mother my mother was. It’s the kind of mother my grandmothers were as well. There were many, many generations of hierarchical relationship dynamics working against me here, so be kind.
In a marriage, these are not healthy dynamics to work with. As a child, I had already learned that boy’s hormones were my problem, and that “boys will be boys.”
So that left me as the only “adult” in the relationship. And that is certainly what happened.
I became his cheerleader, the mop that picked up all of the sad, angry victim stories that he lived inside of. I became the person who had to solve all of this problems and make sure he had (at least) the opportunity for happiness. I mean, I was his WIFE, after all, right?
I actually cannot imagine what would have happened if I had just let him do his life…and I continued to do mine. I have no idea if I ever would have seen him. I changed my hours at work, managed to shift times of classes, did all kinds of gymnastics in order to have time with him. I wanted to actually LIVE with someone and see him on occasion.
He never came my way, however. But I never knew anything different. When you are raising children, you never expect gratitude. You never expect them to see the depth of what you are doing for them. If they are happy, they are happy. If they are sad or angry or misbehaving, you get to help problem solve, counsel, or give a punishment that makes sense. It’s really not that hard.
When they get sick, you know what to do. A tepid bath to cool them, some peppermint tea for the fever, hold them, keep cool rags on their heads, and watch their breathing.
Husbands aren’t that different. I just didn’t hold him when he was sick. But I knew how to “take care of him”. It was second nature.
Even after he moved out of the house, he called me for my remedy for a UTI that was plaguing him. We went through the basement tinctures and such and I sent him “home” with what he needed…and the sideways encouragement to masturbate…because he apparently wasn’t. This was a pattern I knew from our earlier life together, post-partum. UTI’s came with that territory.
As a child, I was taught that it was normal to juggle a million things at the same time in order to keep a home running smoothly, with no hitches. I was taught that it was my job to have good food on the table, and a clean house. It was my job to make sure everyone felt loved and cared for…including the husband.
That didn’t work out so well for me because my then-husband didn’t want to “adult”. I watched my mother care for my father. But my father fulfilled his end of the deal. He was a man…in a traditional male role, but one that did his part. It worked for them.
It didn’t work for me.
I have learned these things the hard way. But my three daughters have different stories. The cycle ended. It was painful and difficult. But they are not servants to their men and boyfriends. Nor will they be. They keep each other in check.
They are still knowledgeable and can care for people, children especially. They know how to cook, clean, and nurture. But so does my son. And they all pride themselves on having these skills.
I don’t have to watch my failure repeat itself in the next generation, thank God. That would be a kind of hell I could not live with.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism | Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box | The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer | What We Talk About When We Talk About Men |
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