Dear Mama, Dear Mother, Dear Giver of Life,
I was your first, your experiment, and your accident.
I was your trying to figure it out, your make sure we don’t screw up the baby.
Well now I’m not a baby anymore and the ones after me,
the better, the let’s try again, and the we got our boy,
they are not mine. They are not my responsibility.
I am not you reliving your teenage years and I am not your built-in nanny.
I get money and respect when I work for other families,
all I want is a little respect from my own.
Communication is a powerful tool and your words tend to be weapons.
I am not my siblings’ mother and how they act should not be my fault.
But it’s no wonder that when people see me around they assume they are mine?
I act enough like a harried young mom, being forced to work for no thanks.
I cannot raise them right because it should not be me who has to raise them at all.
So if they pick up some of my less than savory traits, I’m sorry.
I don’t have time to fine-tune them in between raising them on my own.
Your Eldest, Your Nanny, Your Child Who Never Got a Chance to Be a Child