My brother looks like he’s going to kill me. Next to my parents’ serene, proud faces, watching their oldest child graduate from college, my brother looks like he’s seriously considering standing up, yelling, “This is the most boring three hours … Continued
Moving back home isn’t the first choice for Millennials, but it’s a wise money decision.
Being multiracial is sometimes frustrating. I feel proud of all my nationalities, and all the traditions that come with each. But I know I’m not really Chinese, nor am I really German. I guess that makes me “Enhanced American.”
I feel lucky to have been born into a world where my contraceptive choices are virtually endless. Gone are the days of the pullout method. We have so many options that it can get kind of boggling. In this day and age, it’s up to a woman to decide when (and if!) to have a baby.
“If I had known she was going to stay, I wouldn’t have said it was alright.” My parents allege that those were the first words out of my mouth when my sister came home from the hospital on my second birthday. And it went downhill from there.
“I am not a half!” I exclaimed, after hearing my brother tell his high school girlfriend I was his “half sister.” To an eight-year-old, the concept of half does not exist when dealing with family. To me, Dan was my brother, my whole brother, despite us having the same Dad, but different Moms.
As I look back on those moments with my parents, I’m startled by how many of those lessons I now live by. Funny how that works, eh? At the time, I was all, “Yeah, Dad. I get it. It costs money…” But, hey, now I know the value of a dollar.
I am more than just a nanny. I am also the household manager. The to-do list keeper. The grocery shopper. But more importantly, I am also an honorary member of the family I work for.
When my mom began to text me during my freshman year at Boston College, at first it made me feel wildly uncomfortable. Beyond the wrongful use of abbreviations, during our first few conversations via text, I felt that my mother was entering a sacred territory. But now, mom texting feels familiar and similar to the notes I used to get with my lunch bag when I was in grade school.
Being the baby is a bittersweet, fine line. There are sad times, like being too short to ride the roller coaster, being forced to wear hand-me-downs, and being left out by the “older kids.” But, generally, the babying and coddling and special treatment aspects of being the youngest make it pretty good in the end.