No one likes being pushed aside. Ignored. Neglected. Silenced. Especially
a six year old. If nothing else, it’s deflating.
Though becoming a big sister was pitched to me as a positive life
change, it didn’t take me long to realize that I was now pitted against someone newer, cuter and louder for a
measly share of my parents’ time and attention. Like all first-borns the world
over, I began to struggle with my new reality: I am no longer their Sun, the
one they orbit around. I was demoted to “star”… one of many, all equally bright
in my parents’ universe.
There’s a fallacy in society that it’s only battered old men
and bitter old women who reminisce about years gone by, yearning for a simpler
time. I felt that way at six. In my mind, all of life’s complications could be
tracked back to this new sister-business. You see, I loved watching early
morning cartoons with my brother Shawn, but I hated that he had an equal say in
what we watched. And though I prized our family outings to the park on Saturday
afternoons, I always felt cheated when we had to leave early because Jason had
grown tired. Being an older sister was proving to be a double-edge sword
indeed, and I yearned for a simpler time when it was all about me.
By the time seven came around, I was ready to trade in my
brothers for a puppy or kitten… something equally cute that could also be left
at home alone, freeing me from any annoying big sister-type tasks like 1)
holding hands walking down the street or 2) being nice in public. But mostly, I
desperately wanted to right the wrongs that were done to me; I wanted to regain
my position as my parents’ sun.
Of course, I wasn’t the only child with an attention-seeking
agenda. Every time my mother baked a cake, it was a battle-to-the-death over
who’d get to lick the battered spoon first. The blood-sport to decide who sat shotgun
next to my father on trips to the corner store was even more ferocious. It is a
credit to my parents that they never showed favouritism… but little did they
know that equality was the exact problem. We all yearned to be crowned as their
favourite star. Even if it was for just one day.
After years of trying to appease several competing little
stars for a limited amount of attention, my mother came up with a solution:
each of us would be allocated one Saturday in summer that was “ours”; a full
day alone with mum and dad. Coined as our “Big Day Out”, it soon became my day
of reckoning. If I were no longer their sun, my Big Day Out would offer me the
chance to be their brightest star.
As a child living in Montreal, my annual calendar was now
divided into two major social events: Christmas in winter, and Big Day Out in
summer. I always insisted on having my Big Day Out last – as late in the summer
as possible. The way I saw it, a later date would gave me more time to plan,
and more time to talk my parents into spending more money (“it’s nearly the end
of summer, last chance to go to the water park!”), thereby making my day bigger
and better than my brothers. Like a General, my strategy was to study my enemy
and survey the landscape before coordinating my strike.
My brother Shawn, however, didn’t seem to have a strategy.
All he seemed to care about was having his Big Day Out as soon as possible. It
wasn’t that he hated to wait; he just never saw the point. For him, waiting
simply never yielded a big enough payoff to offset any immediate gratification.
So without fail, Shawn’s Big Day Out took place early in the summer when
expectations were much, much lower.
Regardless of Shawn’s flawed strategy, the beauty of a Big
Day Out was this: it was simply impossible to have a bad one. No matter what
you did on your day, you were guaranteed to return home exhausted and
sunburned, asleep in the back seat of the car.
“Did you have fun?” I’d ask as dad would carry him, still
half asleep, up the stairs to his bedroom.
Forcing out an exhausted “yes”, Shawn’s eyes would flutter
with a brief surge of excitement , before quickly closing again.
“But what did you do?” I’d prod.
“Shhh... no more questions. He’s tired from all the fun we
had today.” My dad would answer, tucking my brother into his race car bed.
“What kind of fun?” I’d whisper.
“Well, we had McDonald’s pancakes for breakfast… at the
restaurant with the big slide. Then we went to another park with slides, but
this one had swings and monkey bars. After that, we went for a long drive
listening to The Beach Boys. And to top it all off, we stopped for ice cream on
the way home. It was a fun and special Big Day Out with my Scadoodler.”`
I’d look at my dad – a twinkle of love in his eyes as he
kissed Shawn on the forehead – perplexed. ‘Scadoodler’ was his special term of
endearment for Shawn, a nickname he always used when he was particularly proud
of him. But why? Because he chose to go to a park? Because they had Ice cream? How was that special?
And as much as I believed Shawn squandered his Big Day Out
on cheap, frivolous activities, the look on his sleeping face spoke louder than
words. He felt like a bright star.
In contrast, my Big Day Out proved to be the most jam-packed
day in the summer calendar. The babysitter got paid overtime on my day. I
scoffed at the idea of McDonald's and instead insisted on restaurants with
silverware. Any park I chose would require an entry fee. And if we were going
to listen to The Beach Boys, it would be live.
At the end of my Big Day Out, I’d let myself drift off to
sleep in the car on the way home, satisfied. When the car pulled into our
driveway and stopped, I never dared open my eyes – even forcing them shut,
pretending to sleep – until my father carefully lifted me from the car and
carried me to bed.
Predictably, Shawn would ask me what I did on my Big Day
Out. I always took a great amount of joy gloating about my extravagance. It
felt good to win, even if my competitor had no idea we were competing.
Regardless of the amount of tears Shawn shed over the
injustice (and there were buckets full of his tears), one truth remained: he
already had his Big Day Out and he’d have to wait an entire year to better
mine. Inevitably, the next year Shawn would forget all about his buyer’s
remorse the year before, and he’d excitedly choose the activities he loved
most: a day at the park, followed by a long drive and some ice cream.
Eventually, when puberty hit and having too much parental
attention proved detrimental to my social life, I stopped wanting a Big Day
Out. As time went on, I’d ultimately forget the finer details of those days…
unable to remember which restaurant I chose to eat at, or what live show I
dragged my parents to. But there was one activity that took place every year,
one moment I still remember with crystal clear clarity: being carried from the
car in my father’s arms.
Truth is that no matter the activities we chose for our Big
Day Out year in and year out, Shawn and I are inexplicably joined by one shared
experience: we were both little stars carried by a father who made us feel like
the brightest.
(DISCLOSURE: I loved growing up in a large family, and adore
each of my siblings. I simply can’t imagine my childhood or adulthood without
their smiles, laughter, tears and influence. After all, where else would I have
been able to perfect an ability to successfully blame my transgressions on
someone else? Or effortlessly manipulate some poor sap into giving me their favourite
toy? Nowhere... except, maybe, Cell Block H.)
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