First born

People pleaser

A dreamer

What do you say about the oldest child in a family that hasn’t been said a million times — that they are  people pleasers, dreamers, talkative, responsible, somewhat bossy.  I have three others who will attest to the last trait.

Talkative

Responsible

The GAP was bright and vivacious.  Her hair was long and honey gold.  The nice thing — most of it was on her head.  As a little girl, when I was too distraught to remember meal times, she brought me peanut butter sandwiches.  When I was scared, she curled up on the bed with me. 

When the GAP asked for an unnecessary item, short on time and understanding, I’d blare, “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“What kind do you have then?” she’d ask.  “Can’t you just go to the bank and get some?”  Sure with my good looks and a nine-millimeter Uzi.

The GAP was my first, my experiment.  My Betsy Wetsy doll had bottle-fed and wet according to my schedule; the GAP didn’t.  She cried, breathed irregularly, slept too little, squirmed, and pooped.  I’d called the hospital thirteen times the first day home.

Dr. Spock, my guide, my mentor (and my first mistake — listening to someone whose cervix had never dilated), said not to force-feed a child.  My little seven-and-a-half pound infant would stop eating when her hunger was satisfied.  For reassurance, I weighed her before nursing.  Then after.  Seventeen ounces heavier.  She rocked like a Weeble Wobble. 

Early on, some overzealous authority figure (most likely practical-to-a-fault Mom hoeing in the garden, a playing card bobby-pinned to a curl for a sun visor) said, “Vegetables are good for you.”  A more valuable piece of knowledge would have been “Everything in moderation.”

When four months later the GAP turned orange, the pediatrician glanced at her complexion.  “Yellow vegetables?”

I’d nodded.  “She’s loves sweet potatoes.”

“Carrotitus,” he diagnosed.  “Feed her strained peas and green beans.”

Come on.  Orange skin is bad enough, let alone a color resembling the contents of the cosmic foil shapes in my mom’s refrigerator.

Knee deep in chatter, the GAP shared her ideas incessantly.  She made the sound of every animal on the face of the planet by the time she turned twelve months old.  Mom had chuckled when Grandpa bragged Aunt Soozie had walked at three months.  The older he got, the earlier she’d taken her first step.  But we knew the GAP talked before one year.  We had it on film. 

Then came the questions.  I thought they’d never end.  They started out easy.  “Do the holes in the knees,” she yelled, prying Brandon’s small foot into pink hand-me-down pajamas, “go in the front or the back?”  Then too soon the “Whys?” and “How comes?” turned into “Who, me?” and “Why not?”

An older Japanese woman had approached us in the airport.  She held her hand low to her waist and bowed.  Courteously, I bowed back.  Again she held her hand tightly on her abdomen and leaned over.  Following her action, I bent to show respect.  She looked frustrated.  I felt helpless, unable to communicate.

“Mom, she’s not bowing,” Jennifer said, tugging at my sleeve.  “She just wants to know where the bathroom is.”

I’d pointed to my left.  The old lady smiled in relief.

They say the younger generation is sharper and quicker today.  She stopped looking to me as their authority figure by the time she put Binky aside.  Still I spewed gems like Mom.  When she refused to listen, I resorted to Mom’s line, “Because I said so, that’s why.”

She wonders how I survived the five-o-clock news.  I don’t let on — I wonder, too.

As one of my four masterpieces, there is something special about your first baby.  You are in awe over every little thing they do.  Perhaps because the miracle is so new or because they are lucky enough to have your undivided attention.  I am still in awe of this beautiful woman with an uncanny gift to land on her feet.  Happy Birthday, Jenn.  To many more years of soaring.

Related posts:

1. Baby of the family
2. Second born
3. This one’s for you, Mom
4. Just like Grandma
5. Sunday morning with kids