In life, we are all responsible for something. Be it changing the cat’s litter, doing one’s own laundry, or perhaps supervising at a job, everyone is, or, at least everyone should, be held responsible for an entity aside from themselves. There’s a special amount of responsibility placed in the hands of very select few people, one which cannot be handed off or denied, one which you do not ask for and can never get away from. That is, the responsibility of being the oldest sibling, a title which is handed to you at birth and which haunts your from the day sibling #1 is born until the day you die. It’s a responsibility which matches that of the presidency and overthrows all logic. You were born first, and it is with that honor that you carry the weight of being “The Oldest” and thus responsible, in great part, for the outcome of those which follow you. It is a blessing and a curse, and it is my life.

I was born four years before there was even thought of perhaps another me, and I am in fact the only product of my mother and father in whole. Four years I spent as an only child, living it up as undoubtedly the favorite granddaughter, showered with gifts and affection, everyone’s energy always directed at me. It was the best of times, and post-toddler Doria was the paragon of her generation. But like all good things, my reign ended with the birth of my oldest-younger brother. And the little writhing-screaming-pooping thing which did nothing but spit-up and sleep became the object of my family’s affection (at least in part, so I was still holding onto that glorious position on my father’s side).

He wasn’t all bad, with a head full of curly blonde locks and a sweet smile, the thing was kind of cute. But he was an attention-seeking bastard, and I didn’t understand how it was fair that he should be so worshipped when I was clearly just as cute and I spoke in complete sentences. Months passed, and then one day it all changed. As I whined to my mother about something that was clearly not worth whining about, my mother said to me, “You’ll teach your brother to whine like that if you don’t stop.”

Suddenly I was to be held somewhat accountable for the actions of my brother, and it was from there on out that I became 'The Eldest' and thus 'The Great Influencer.' And so came my three other siblings, and one on my father’s side too (though, by then, I was much older and much too infatuated with baby Ricky to be even remotely concerned with attention). I set out to be a Grade-A oldest sibling, and it’s a role that has worn on my heartstrings and made me feel ever so responsible for anything and everything my siblings say and do.

As is only natural, each of my siblings is unique both in personality and interests. I was always slightly more subdued, a quiet child with interests in drawing and reading and being something of an old person reincarnated into the body of a child. I see a lot of myself in my brother Nathan, who is quiet and often feels outcasted by his other two siblings, my two sisters, who are chatty and loud and overtly energetic. I see myself in my littlest sister, who loves drawing, but I worry for her when she doesn’t want to read books or when she’s whiny. Did I do that? I think to myself, Did my whining as a kid cause my sister to whine? It’s silly, because all kids whine, but I think that there’s a little piece of me in all of my siblings. Not a piece of my mother, or my father, but a piece of Doria Wohler.

I see myself in the wicked dance moves that my littlest brother Ricky performs for my family. I feel guilty because I wasn’t around him as much as I was around Nathan or Talia or Lili, and so I can only hope what pieces of myself I was able to give him were the best of me. He’s brilliant, he’s kind, he’s silly, and he’s sensitive, and I hope that somewhere in there he’s a little Doria, too. That one day he’ll look in himself, and look back on us growing up, and perhaps see me in him the way I never got to see some Great Influencer within myself. Or, on the flipside, on the scarier side, one day he looks within himself and is absolutely terrified to see that all of his insecurities and anger stem from incidents which we shared that haunt him on an emotional level and such reflection results in a terrible grudge against all that we have ever shared as brother and sister (she says as she pants heavily, disturbed and anxiety ridden from hypothetical scenarios).

I didn’t want this responsibility; no first child is born thinking that they will be the first of many to come. We are all born under the assumption that our parents will be so content with us that why the hell would they even need a second one? I, of course, can recognize the fallacy in that argument, at least on my end, because I am in fact an only child by nature, the only truly half-James-half-Darlene on this fine earth, and so my parents (as a collective, and as I like to think) saw me and said, “Ah, yes, this is all we will ever need! The most divine perfection she is!”

Regardless, it is not a responsibility that any one child ever expects, or asks, to be granted, but as you grow into the title of 'Oldest Sibling,' you find the job, while grueling at times, is worth the payoff. It’s worth it to see your brother show warmth to others when you know you would have done the same, and it’s worth it to hear your sister say something brilliant and sarcastic to your mother, only to have her say, “Well, Doria said it!” in defense.