The Little Sisters

Happy dog days of summer, everybody. We haven’t been doing much since coming back from our annual jaunt to Massachusetts—we’ve seen neither Barbie nor Oppenheimer, although I dreamed I became pen pals with Krutschev after he stumbled onto this blog.

In other news, my sister had a baby in June—a sweet, squishy girl with pink cheeks and a tiny little rosebud mouth. Her big sister Liz warmed to her in a relatively short time while Andrew, her cousin, was ecstatic, and sent up a paean of joy the minute she was born: “Ruthie is born! She is finally born! This is the first day of her life! I’m gonna pray for her right now: ‘Dear Lord, please help Ruthie to live a long life. Amen.’” For all your celebratory announcements, see Andrew, I guess.

But while we were in Massachusetts, she had to go to the E.R. after becoming unexpectedly ill. My sister rushed her to the doctor, then they were both packed off in an ambulance to the nearest Children’s Hospital. She’d gotten some kind of not-serious virus, which became serious because she was so new and fragile. And because she’s an infant and can’t complain of pain, the doctors tested her for everything under the sun. She had her dime-sized heel pricked for blood tests, she had intravenous antibiotics pumped into her teeny little hand, and my sister slept on a couch in a hospital room so she could keep nursing her every three hours. Meanwhile, none of us were allowed within arms’ length in case we gave her something else. 

I asked everyone I knew to pray for Ruthie and for my sister, and then we got home to Texas and waited until we could quarantine long enough after our travels that it would be safe to see her. Unfortunately, Ruthie suddenly seemed to relapse.

Ginni called me to meet them at the pediatrician’s office, her voice that mix of control and anxiety that moms use. When I got there, my sister was unloading all the heavy yet dainty pastel-colored baby equipment, and Ruthie was lying in the center of the carrier, her face like the middle of a daisy. She seemed unaffected by the drama.

Her big sister Liz was similarly sherbet-colored in a little summer dress, her red hair bouncing along and her face covered by pink sunglasses. She told me all about her most recent adventure (falling and hurting her lip) while her mom and baby sister rushed into the pediatrician’s office. She tried to follow them, and I intercepted her. We were to wait outside. She didn’t like that—she started to fuss.

“Liz, it’s ok,” I assured her.

She didn’t believe me, but she was too tired to argue. The last two weeks hadn’t been her favorite, although she’d gotten a bunch of new stuff in a new princess backpack from my mom, been swimming with Pop Pop, gotten to watch tons of movies and eat tons of snacks. When you’re barely out of babyhood yourself and your world is invaded by a much-heralded little sister who suddenly eats up all the time, space, and worry around you, it’s hard to keep it together. I assume it was hard for me—I was almost exactly the same age when her mom, Ginni, was born.

“It’s ok, babe,” I told her, sitting down on the bench and perching her on my lap. “It’s ok, we can hang out while they see the doctor. We’re the big sisters…they’re the little sisters.”

Liz and I don’t have a lot in common…she fears neither machine nor man, and I have a short list of stuff that DOESN’T freak me out. She loves to dance around in princess dresses, and it’s been suggested that I’m “not a very good dancer” (Drew said that). But we ARE both the big sisters to sweet little sisters. And I couldn’t imagine life without mine.

Also, I can’t tell you the number of times my sister has needed help and I was unable to do anything. She’s the smart one—if she can’t figure it out, maybe it can’t be figured out. But I could do this; I could entertain her older daughter while she raced her baby in to see the doctor again. 

I went with them to the hematologist the next day, and Liz and I wandered around the hospital grounds. There were a bunch of statues of kids—playing with toys, riding bikes, reading, patting horses. It gave me serious Piranesi vibes (if you haven’t read that book, go for it—it’s good and it’s short). I had to stop and inspect the one where the girl is smiling at a tiny horse. “I don’t like this hospital,” Liz informed me.

“Me, either,” I answered, though it’s been nothing but good to her sister. I could agree with her on principle.

When I was in Massachusetts this year, I tried to find a princess dress for Liz, but as usual, everything was more expensive than I thought—why are kids’ clothes so pricey when they’re just going to be covered in spaghetti or something more gross? So I got a dress for the baby and a pink shirt for Liz that said, of course, Big Sister.

It’s going to be a huge part of her life; it’s been a huge part of mine. You’re supposed to watch out for someone but you don’t always know when they need it. Especially when they’re always at the top of their class, always so composed, and you’re the one freaking out about driving in the rain. Or when they have two kids when you can’t imagine life with more than one. Or they seem to survive challenge after challenge without so much as complaining…I have barely done squat for my sister, and when I was in MA while she was sequestered in a hospital room with a sick infant, I realized that. I could beg everybody to pray for her, but I couldn’t teleport down there— and even if I could, I’m not a doctor and I had no answer.

My littlest niece is doing better, thank God. My older niece is the same as she ever was—fearless, hilarious, a fan of princesses and Batman. Again, thank God. And now she has a new phrase when she sees her mom rocking Ruthie in the living room while she and I dig into applesauce in the kitchen: “We’re the big sisters. They are the little sisters.”

I was just so glad I could do something. Because it turns out that teleportation doesn’t happen all that often, although it might have happened in the Bible. In Acts 8:39, if you’re curious. I don’t know, ask Ginni; she’s actually been to Israel so I think she knows more about this than I do.