On Jan. 10, I went with my mom to the local clinic. It was nothing different, just a standard flu shot appointment.
“Go and stand on the scale sweetie,” the nurse said. She turned to look at me and asked, “Has she had any fever? Allergies?”
“I think she thought she was my daughter,” I tell my mom when we get to the car.
For the past 4 years, that phrase has become a constant in my life. I mean, when you have a 15/16-year gap between you and your sister, people will automatically assume things. But like the old saying goes: Don’t judge a book by its cover.
I don’t mind people thinking my four-year-old sister is my kid. Sometimes even I have to take a step back and realize she isn’t my kid. I’ve changed her diapers, cleaned up her baby barf, make her bottles, and am basically watching her grow up before my eyes. The other day she said the word “intelligent,” and for a four-year-old, that’s a pretty impressive word choice in my opinion.
On top of that, during my winter break, I’ve been able to take her to school and go eat lunch with her. I got to meet her teacher, see who her little friends were, the whole nine yards. Never in a million years did I imagine myself setting foot in an elementary school again.
I have a younger brother, but we’re a year apart. We grew up together. He always got “Are you Daniella’s brother?” or “I taught your sister,” from my former teachers. And I got “I can’t believe he’s your brother,” or “I think I have your brother,” from those same former teachers.
But with my sister, it’s different.
I got to sit in those long pickup lines after school. I got to see a little girl’s face light up when I showed up to her school with chicken nuggets. I got to sit on those little blue cafeteria stools again.
Unlike my brother, she probably will never get the “I taught your sister” because it was forever ago since I was in Pre-K, and there are all new teachers that I never had growing up. At the same time, it also makes me realize just how much has changed since I was a kid.
Those are times that I hate the giant age gap.
Being the eldest, I never knew the bond between younger and older siblings. My brother and I never were close because people always linked us together and we did all we could to disassociate from one another.
My sister is a different story.
She’s silly, bright, a Disney lover, and a giant ball of sunshine. She knows what Harry Potter is, and knows Hannah Montana. She can sing Beyoncé, and dances like nobody is watching. If she were my kid, I would be one proud mom because that kid is going places!
But the age gap does have its downside.
It’s not the questionable looks, or the assumptions made that get under my skin. It’s the fact that I can’t be there for everything due to the fact that I am currently a student in college. I missed her fourth birthday, and her first dance recital, because I had school. I wasn’t there for her first day of Pre-K, nor will I be there for her last day of school.
There are times when we are Facetiming and she demands I go home so she can have someone to play with. If only things were that simple.
I’m not her mom, despite the assumptions. I’m her big sister that happens to be 15 years older. And as a big sister, I want to be there for her. I want to protect her from all the monsters and the Boogieman. I want to help make a gingerbread house and cookies to leave out for Santa. I want to make sure she doesn’t watch the movie IT because she might be scared of clowns for the rest of her life. I want her to grow up knowing that nothing is impossible and she is capable of so many amazing things. I want to make sure she grows up being the best that she can be and know that her big sister will always be there for her no matter what.
By the time I’m 30 years old, she will be 15.
I find it hard to comprehend, but I’ve accepted the fact that to some, I will always be seen as her mom to the people we pass at the mall or in the store. I don’t mind. But at the end of the day, I’m her sister, and, in the words of a four-year-old, we’re sisters forever.