I'm the eldest daughter, I already have kids
don't you think its weird we've had babygirl, night bitch and all fours in the last 4 years?
Most weeks I have breakfast with my two best friends. It’s extremely Sex and the City vibes except we don’t make enough money to justify our hunt for the perfect eggs benny spot. We start with the usual check ins, life, parents, jobs, travel, boyfriends, art, recent books read, latest cultural phenomenon, etc and then they ask me “how are your siblings?”. I am the eldest daughter of the group, a role constantly reminded to me when I organize the beach trips, or teased for when I pulls trinkets out of my bag I found for them. Its a role I am trained in. Stunning at running. They know the gravity my sibling catch up, “they’re good, new job, new girlfriend, new house, just broke up, working too much, working not enough, broke, needs cash, trying to help us out, etc”. If the topic of future and babies comes up we joke, I already have children.
Although my name does not appear on their birth certificates, those are my kids. Your job as a parent never really stops, neither does your job as eldest daughter. When I still get calls about how to properly make a salad or advise of best laundry practices. When a single missed call at a strange time of day is enough to know there is something wrong, something about finger, something about work saw, the name of the hospital.
I am the eldest daughter of 4. I have had kids since I was 2. I always thought I wanted kids, something I wonder about actually feeling or if it was something instilled in me. Not a question of if but when, little girls become mothers. But when you are the eldest daughter it means your baby dolls are replaced with baby brothers. It means being gifted the responsibility and anxiety of children while still being a child. It means changing a diaper while wearing a diaper. I’ve got more responsibility as a daughter and sister. Therapists argue with me “but why do you feel that way”? I point to Beyonce, Oprah, Taylor Swift, Kamala Harris to name a few. Another article from The Cut, new best selling novel, interview on a Mel Robbins podcast, all explaining, the eldest daughter effect. The pressure to not just be good or great, but be great so you can take care of everyone else, first.
Like any eldest daughter I’ve felt this pressure since I was a kid. One of my first memories I have was waking up early the morning of my 5th birthday looking out the window over ostrich farm next door (another story for another day) and thinking to myself “you’re 5 now, time to grow up”. I walked over to my baby brothers crib in our shared room and sat there watching him breath, knowing I would take care of him for the rest of his life, my life.
At the age of 30 I finally feel like my life is starting to become mine. I raised my kids, they moved out, went to university, got jobs in their chosen field, travelled, loved etc. What else could I ask for? I have my shit together, or as together as one woman’s shit could be. A job I love, a job I am really fucking good at, an apartment I like and can afford to repaint the kitchen at my choosing. A boyfriend that loves me a lot, too much maybe and a lot of fucking free time to sit around in cafes to write, take classes in the city, visit friends in other countries, stay up late and work because I want to and pay the consequences for the next day by drinking too much coffee and then staying up too late again.
There is a stat I think about a lot, the average life span of an Autistic person is 36 years old. When I was diagnosed with dyslexia in the second grade I remember my EA saying to me “dyslexic people can be geniuses, the rest of them are in jail”, then bell for recess rang. The same goes for eldest daughter and Autistic women. You win or lose. Free or fail. If you didn’t feel the pressure before, the world will make sure you do. The only choice is to be good and specifically be good so everyone else can be good.
We are four. When there are four, there is three against one, a rotating tide of judgment you are never sure what side you may fall on. There is gossip and whispering between, there is holding each other close and there is denouncing the other. She’s a fucking bitch she is crazy I am never talking to her again. He is mad, he has no idea what he is talking about he never takes responsibility. Until the next Beatles song comes on and we drum on our stomachs in a circle laughing. There are broken promises and lost texts and inside jokes none of our loves could ever hope to penetrate. There are voices and dance routines, there are fake noses and knowing exactly who will take the melody so you sing the harmony, just to let their voices shine brighter than your own.
It’s easy to be a martyr, actually. Im fucking stunning at it. Serving everyone else around me is my training, gaslight my own sensations to make aunts cups of tea and wake up early to do the morning pick up. In the 8th grade I was awarded the Citizenship Award from the Lions Club, a gold plaque with “service above self” inscribed about the gold crest. Be less of yourself, in fact don’t be self at all, be selfless and we’ll reward you for it. The message is so clear it feels tacky to spell it out for you the same way it was spelt out for me.
I am at a fork in the road, grateful at the very least to see it as one. Pulled back enough to feel like I have a choice. There is a trail I’ve had a front row seat too and watched 100’s of women walk down before me. The grooves are deep on the trail and it’t easy to repeat the sequence. Not easy to walk on, but something like a slip stream I could fall into. A routine my DNA has already choreographed for me. I just need to dance the steps. I have kids on this trail, I manage the mothers day flower buying and the collective Christmas present we give our parents from the group of siblings. I am a martyr on this trail. I probably get divorced and then find myself again in my late 40’s. Pick up a copy of All Fours, join the Miranda July group chat, read Night Bitch, watch Babygirl, or any french movie where a woman blows up her life after breaking off a pieces of herself first. Or you could just go to the cafe, the park, join a yoga teacher training and see the real life women doing the exact same. “I lost myself”, “I don’t know who I am without husband/baby/child/proximity to man”, “I have nothing left of me”.
There is another trail. Maybe the outcome is the same. Maybe I have kids on this trail and maybe I get married and then divorced. But I never lose myself. Intention is the other part of the trail. It’s walked on, but less clear, less obvious. I resist co-dependancy and choose myself. Over and over again.
When you are the eldest daughter you feel the bitterness of their lack of responsibility. You flip coins in your pockets wondering what it might be like to be the baby. And when you are the eldest daughter you work to preserve and pickle your sister's heart from all the broken things you run your fingers over, when new boyfriends come for dinner. You wonder what it might be like if you moved to London, or Paris, or Beirut and leave someone else in charge of inevitable doctors appointments and the shit still piled up in the attic. Avoid sandwich caregiver. I wonder what it would be like to choose care, to feel able to have a small thing that is just my own, not something I feel I would be recommitting to. Motherhood feels like the burden of knowing when you are the eldest daughter, I’ve seen too much already.
My phone rings, it’s my brother telling me about a job, or an apartment, or girlfriend or an ex girlfriend. Sitting in traffic sun in my eyes and a little too honest when I found myself asking, “You know sometimes I don’t get where you come from, like we were raised in two different houses. Who raised you?” A pause, and exhale of cigarette smoke, something I tell him to stop doing every moment I get. He laughs,“you did”.
Thanks for reading weird girl. You can find me weekly over at my “day job” DoYouEver! Last week we had sweet
on the pod to chat her latest album 💿.ALSO I am teaching this workshop on April 10th HOW TO RUN AN ONLINE WORKSHOP (AT THE END OF THE WORLD) I would LOVE to see you there 🧚♀️
xx
Phoebe
*typos are left to reflect the fury passion and 3D humaness of being a passionate freak in the world – and you know not a robot *beep boop* I am just a human girlie living on earth with a mortal brain 🤸♀️(and also like, don’t be an ableist freak🥰)
Thanks for reading the Weird Girl. Here I write about being an artist, human, angry woman on the internet and breaking up with the wellness industrial complex. If what I say here inspires you (or pisses you off 🥰) share my work with the group chat, or your best friends neighbour. Word of mouth is the most special and radical way of sharing 👼
ahh the end lol!! i actually have said the exact same words to my older brother … i think it’s different cause he’s a man & sorta tried to stand in for whatever new hole my fathers digged, so he’s taking it more of a proud point to have co-raised me. and i’m nowadays weirded out how empathetic i am to men his age, simply because i’m older now & he seems to be on the same mature level as me *sigh*. anyway, Phoebe you’re a master at writing. love you🧡
Beautiful Phoebe