I am the oldest of five, and it took me years.
I was in denial, then I was numb, then I was furious. Refusing to accept what was done to me, then letting myself understand what was done to me, then realizing how I'd been hurt by what was done to me.
How my parents put me down when I was three and then never picked me up again. How I was "mature for my age" and "such an easy child" and "responsible" and "well behaved." How I was never allowed to be sad, or angry, or upset. How I was taught to think of everyone else first and myself last. How I learned to cook at five, how I learned to diaper at seven, how I learned to teach at nine. How I compulsively cared for every child around me. How I learned I was my sister's keeper, and my father's keeper, and my cousin's keeper, and my neighbor's keeper.
I was never my mother's keeper, though. Mom kept herself, and everybody else. Mom didn't need anybody, not for anything.
And now, after most of the anger has finally burned away. I'm finally able to look at Mom with different eyes.
Mom, who scheduled every appointment, coordinated every after-school activity, led every parent group.
Mom, who is never panicked, never unruffled, never worried.
Mom, who is everyone's anchor, their solid place, their harbor.
Mom, the rock. The sanctuary. The grounding force. Someone with an entire home in them.
Mom, who is the oldest of ten.
Mom, who is in charge of every single family gathering, large and small. Who handles the food and the invites and the cooking and the cleanup.
Mom, who defuses every fight before it happens, who keeps track of every wayward child and niece and nephew and aunt and uncle, who convinces and cajoles and sometimes outright orders people on what needs to be done every single day.
Who sometimes told me funny childhood stories about how she shared a bed with four younger siblings, and she always had to sleep placed to keep the rest from rolling out of bed or hurting themselves. And funny childhood stories about how she and her siblings would swing twenty feet above cement barn floors, or drive heavy farm equipment, or get lost in the woods and see a bear. Funny childhood stories that never had adults in them.
Who doesn't really like talking about her childhood outside of these funny stories.
Who never really talked to Grandma when we visited, but just took over all the cooking and cleaning and childwatching instead.
Who never cries, never complains, never shows the tiniest crack or weakness, never needs help or a shoulder to cry on.
Who compulsively cares for everyone around her.
Mom, who was an oldest daughter, too.
