Firstborn privilege is real. Years ago, you bent over that cradle and watched helpless little me stare at you in fright, and smiled knowingly. And that’s when Ma-Pa decided to walk in. Of course they thought that that was the cutest thing ever. Protective, loving older brother. Mom’s little angel. I think that’s the moment your evil, little mind hatched the most genius plan ever: that you could terrorize at least one tiny human all your life, and have one, or maybe even two full sized ones wrapped around your finger.
As we grew older, you put the plan into action. I fetched you water; I cleaned your side of the table; you got to have the remote all the damn time; you could watch cartoons freely and blame it on the kid in the room to look mature; you always had a starry eyed tiny human following your every move as you roller skated backwards at a snail’s pace, or as you hummed a song so unbelievably out of tune that you scared the neighbor’s poor dog. If you spilled some juice on the carpet, or broke some expensive showpiece, you always had clumsy ol’ butterfingers to take the fall; if I dared to question your authority, you would put the fear of God in me.
Everything was going smoothly, huh? Or so you thought. You forgot to consider that potato head could grow on you. That you could enjoy her presence. That you could start feeling responsible for that little nugget. That you might even admire her; secretly, of course. That she might be just as evil and sadistic as you could be. That on the day you looked inside the cradle, she might have looked up and thought that you were the sky and flapped her hands to fly a little, but, at the same time, you might have fallen a little. In awe. In love.
Maybe all this time I had a plan, too. A better one. You overlooked a major flaw in yours, bhai. Sure, You got to be Mom’s favorite, but me? I got to be yours.
Lub and Dairy Milk and hugs,
-Your baby sister.