Being the firstborn should come with a manual, honestly. Because sometimes, it feels like I’m parenting my parents and my siblings at the same time. Nobody warned me that this would be part of the job description.
Take my dad, for example. He’s only just realizing that he literally reproduced himself. Every time we argue or have a deep talk, I can almost see the light bulb go off in his head. He’ll pause and look at me like, “Wait… did I just hear myself?” And I’ll just be sitting there like, “Exactly, sir. The apple didn’t fall far at all.” It’s funny, but also kind of wild, that moment when your parent realizes you’ve grown into a mirror version of them, attitude and all.
Then there’s my mum. I’ve gotten to that age where she now seeks what I’d call my “approval” before making certain decisions. Not in a strict sense, but more like, “I want to withdraw my money from this place, should I do that?” Or, “Do you think it’s smart if I buy this?” I won’t call it permission, it’s more of her wanting accountability.
And guess who her exercise accountability partner is too? Me.
She knows I’ll call her out if she skips her daily routine. She’ll even joke that she can’t skip it now because she doesn’t want to hear my mouth. So she gets it done. Not because of motivation, but because she’s avoiding my nagging. I’ll take it. A win is a win.
My influence doesn’t stop there though. If she wants my brother to wear something and he refuses, she reports to me. “Tell him to wear it!” And what I say? Final judgment. Ha-ha. Sometimes I laugh at how the chain of command in this house has changed.
Now, about my brother, sigh.
Trying to relate to a teenager is a full-time job. He’s the silent rebellion type. I was the loud one growing up, doors slammed, opinions aired, dramatic sighs for effect. My sister is somewhere in between. Second-borns were literally created to rebel, loudly or silently, depending on the weather.
But my brother? His rebellion is quiet. He won’t talk back, won’t argue, won’t roll his eyes. He’ll just… go silent. You’ll give him the best advice in the world, and for two hours, he’ll look like he’s ready to turn his life around. Next thing? He’s back to playing games all day like our conversation never existed.
Still, I try to be gentle with him. He’s an amazing kid, kind-hearted, funny, and honestly too soft for this world sometimes. But I’ve noticed he has this “I’ll do it later” energy that scares me a little. So I’ve been trying to plant small seeds: “You’re young, have fun, but every once in a while, do something productive. Manage your time well. Play, yes, but not all day.”
The tricky part is, I never know what’s going on in his head. He doesn’t talk back or explain himself. He just goes quiet. That’s what I mean by silent rebellion. It’s not loud, but you can feel it. And sometimes, I wonder if my words get through to him at all.
But lately, I’ve come to accept something: I can’t make him see life through my eyes. He needs to see it through his own. I can guide, talk, warn, and nag, but at the end of the day, he has to experience life for himself. He’ll make mistakes. He’ll ignore some lessons until life repeats them loudly. And that’s okay.
So here’s to hoping every mistake becomes a stepping stone. Here’s to trusting that he’ll find his way, in his own time, and in his own style of rebellion.
And honestly, I can’t wait to see who he becomes. Because deep down, I know, that boy’s going to turn out amazing. Kind. Loving. Grounded.