“Hold still! I'm almost done!” I begged my little sister. Lily kept twisting and turning, trying to drag herself away from a clean diaper. On this sweltering summer day, Lily couldn't help feel querulous and irritated. She was yelling so much she didn't let my uncle listen to his television program. Finally, after multiple kicks, I managed to close the flaps and properly secure her diaper on. I couldn’t help laughing at her for running away.
Before this, at three years old, when my mom went to sleep and my father hadn’t come home yet, I was up till the early hours of the morning at my grandmother’s house. When my grandma asked me why I wasn’t asleep yet, in spanish I told her, “Porque mi Danny no se quiere dormir.” I was taking care of my brother, waiting for him to fall asleep. As young as I was, my maternal instincts had already kicked in and mini-mom was my middlename.
As far back as I remember, my mom has come home late, ate, and gone to…show more content… Stepping into my house I’m immersed in both laughter and tears. Some days, I can find myself chasing a naked baby around the house with a clean diaper. Or listening to Carolina give me a full explanation on what a prostitute is. Or breaking up a fight on the account of Abigail giving Carolina a purple-nurple.
I am their psychologist and listen to all their problems. My sister did once say, “Stephie, I have issues,” and in response I said, “Tell me about them.” I am their lawyer and defend them against all the evidence that says they really did eat the sandwiches. I am their priest and listen to them confess their sins, and if they need a mom, I will be their mom.
Today, as I was typing this essay, I was cradling Lily to sleep in my left arm. 13 years A.D., after my brother, I am still watching over the baby. Despite our differences in fathers, physical features, or last names, I don’t call them my half-siblings. They are my sisters and brother and make up a huge part of who I
