Issues of Entitlement

One would think that someone with the lack of entitlement issues that a sixth-of-eighth child can have would know better than to marry a firstborn, only male.

But he was so cute.

The past thirteen years have turned up scores of differences, some of which stop me in amazement.

An example: when I hunt in the utensil drawer for a pancake turner-type tool, I take the best one I can find. If the one I truly prefer happens to be there, I am delighted. I know it must be my lucky day. This is because, as the sixth child, I am not used to getting what I really want on a regular basis. For my true preference to really turn up for me is a coincidence, a lucky strike. I mean, for years, what were the odds?

But if Paul can't find the pancake turner-type tool he prefers, he forgets that something in the pan must be turned right away and launches on a mad search for it. Uprooting dozens of spoons, potato mashers, brushes, kitchen shears, and, yes, three other pancake turners, he cannot, can NOT proceed without the one he likes.

Because when he was a child, he was one of only two children. He was the oldest. He was male. The thing he wanted was there for them. Or it had better be.

In the time that I would have mentally shrugged, grabbed the nearest tool and flipped over the food--ten times--Paul has started muttering about the drawer being a mess and nothing ever being where it should be. EVER being where it should be--when he fully expects it to be there always, unlike me, who considers it a lucky find.

Utensils get placed on the counter. The dishwasher is searched. An inquiry is begun. Now half the kitchen is a mess in addition to the drawer, and I think, "Wow! What would it be like to have gotten what you wanted so often in your childhood that you still expect it, every time?"

I am both amazed and dismayed. In awe and embarrassed. I wonder, "Should I start to act like that? Would it increase my chances of being pleased?" On one level, I'm really envious.

But, as I move to act practically in the crisis, I think, no. I'm fine as I am.

Sisters

I was going to write an article about how my oldest sister died at the age of 62, at the top of her career and enjoying being the grandmother of twelve children, half of them infants and toddlers. I was going to opine about how short her life was cut, how bravely she met her challenges. I was going to mention how she jam-packed the years she had with more achievement than most people who reach 90.

I was just having a little trouble finding the words.

Then, exactly eleven weeks after she died, my second sister suddenly died. She was even younger.

I had just stopped wearing black.

So I knew then that I had lost any control of this story. The story is in control, so, ready or not, here it comes.

My second sister also enjoyed a brilliant career doing what she loved. Not teaching math teachers how to teach math to children, like Susan, but writing. She was a well-known local author and former journalist.

Both sisters did not live long enough.

Both sisters were high achievers.

Both sisters were brilliantly intelligent and did what they wanted with their lives, but their careers were only the capstone.

Both sisters--in different ways but using their amazing talents well--put their families first.

Both reached out to their communities, were kind and compassionate. Both sisters gave of themselves unselfishly. Both endured their illnesses with courage and cheer and hope for being well just around the corner.

My second sister, Linda, has been housebound with more than one chronic illness for years. She has been in constant pain and averaged one good day a month--in a good month. Yet, she never failed to remember a child in the family's birthday with a special, thoughtful present she knew they would enjoy. She honestly never complained. Unable to sit for long periods of time, she recently completed a novel on her laptop while lying on her back. It's a good novel--I read it in one night because I couldn't put it down.

Both sisters left great legacies. I want my children to know and remember them.

Upon finding out about Linda's unexpected death, my youngest sister, living in another state, scrambled to find enough sitters to farm out her large, young family to so she could come to be with the rest of us. She reports she was asked, "Didn't you already have a sister who just died? Is it the same sister?"

And then, "How many sisters do you have?"

"Not as many as I did a few months ago," she replied, "thank you very much." (I think that last part was an aside to me.)

I love my sisters.

Both Susan and Linda left warm, deep imprints on my mind and heart, and will never cease to live on within me and all others whose lives they touched.