Step One: Be born first.
First touch, first smile, first cry.
Dark brown eyes and soft brown skin,
a song formed with your mother’s personality and your father’s nose and ears,
you were once a gift wrapped in a baby blue and pink bow.
Step Two: Prepare to be the Guinea Pig.
According to a BuzzFeed quiz, I’m an American Guinea Pig;
friendly, curious, clever, and the oldest of the domestic breed,
they pick apart my brain, try to see my best qualities,
because whatever they teach me to do, they can teach my younger brother to do better.
Step Three: Be sentimental.
My brother doesn’t remember our flight from Calgary to Tallahassee,
but I remember it all; I remember staring at the clouds in the sky,
saying “goodbye, Canada,” not knowing when I would return,
but it doesn’t matter how I’m feeling; I need to make sure my family is okay.
Step Four: Family First.
Keep your ears open; you never know when you’re going to hear your mother cry,
apparently her twin sister yelled at her again; I hate her twin sister.
I wrote a lengthy text to send to her, but just as I began to hit send,
my mother grabbed the phone back, reminding me to “respect my elders.”
Step Five: Know everything (or be ready to know everything).
What does my father do for work? I have no idea.
He has explained it to me every night when he comes home, something about oracle, I think?
But I don’t have to do my homework; I don’t mind listening,
he doesn’t have anyone else to talk to, so at least he has me.
Step Six: Jealousy.
You hate it now, but you couldn’t control it then.
It’s hard when you spend three years attached to your family, and someone new comes along,
sweeps in all that love with his little chubby face and small toes,
you’ll get over it; he’s going to be your best friend soon.
Step Seven: Never…write…a…diary.
My father is busy working, my mother trying to get my brother to study,
so many feelings in my mind, but I’d rather write it down on paper than say it to anyone.
It’s my fault; I forgot to put it away when I went to school in the morning,
my mother was deep cleaning my room, and she can never put a book down.
Step Eight: Don’t be a bother.
Please…don’t be a bother.
Just be the girl in the middle, the shuttlecock in their game of badminton,
bounce back and forth, hear all of their ideas,
but whatever you do, never share yours.
Step Nine: Be ready to feel alone.
You’re protecting them by not letting them enter your world,
because to them you were once their
first touch, first smile, first cry.
Dark brown eyes and soft brown skin,
a song formed with your mother’s personality and your father’s nose and ears,
you are their gift wrapped in a baby blue and pink bow.
Step Ten: Acceptance.
Being the eldest daughter is a role you will never grow out of.
You will forever be the backup parent and the shoulder to cry on,
but there is something beautiful about providing comfort for others
with the knowledge that if you are there for them,
when you’re ready, they will be there for you.
