I’m the Big Sister

By me, Lila (I’m four and a half)

At Simply Storytime Studio by Simply Sina

My name’s Lila. I’m four and a half. I don’t go to school like the kids on the TV, but I’m still real smart. I can count to twenty (sometimes I skip seventeen, but that’s okay). I know how to change a diaper and make toast if we’ve got bread. I know how to be quiet when Mommy’s sleeping on the couch, and Daddy’s gone to the store, but not the one with apples.

My baby brother’s name is Tuggie. That’s not his real name, but he always tugs on my shirt when he’s hungry or scared or needs me. So I call him Tuggie. He’s one and a little bit, and he smells like milk and old Cheerios. He cries when it gets dark and there’s no lights, ‘cause the house is sleepy again, and the clicky box on the wall says nothing.

Sometimes the lights work, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the toilet works, and sometimes it smells like outside. I don’t like the dark house. It makes the corners look like monsters.

Mommy says she’s “just resting” and that “Mommy’s medicine makes her tired.” Daddy says “don’t open the door for no one” and “keep quiet, baby girl.” So, I do. I do all the quiet.

I give Tuggie water in his sippy cup, but we don’t have juice anymore. I pat his back like this—pat, pat, pat—when he cries and tell him, “It’s okay, I’m here.” Sometimes, I sing the song from the cartoon with the rainbow puppy. He likes that. He laughs and claps, and his hands are sticky.

I don’t know what day it is. The sun comes, and then it hides. That’s how I know. When the sun hides, I put Tuggie in Mommy’s bed and curl up beside him. He’s warm. Mommy’s not always in the bed. Sometimes, she’s on the floor or outside on the steps, talking to her cigarette.

One time, a lady came and knocked real hard and yelled, “Anyone in there?” I hid with Tuggie in the bathtub under our blankie, like Daddy said. The lady went away. Her shoes were loud. I think she was a mean lady or maybe a helper. I don’t know. Grown-ups are hard.

We got some crackers. I hid ‘em under the couch so they don’t get gone when Daddy’s friends come over. They laugh too loud and smell like sharp drinks. I don’t like it when they come. I keep Tuggie in the closet with me then, with my flashlight that’s tired but still glows a little.

Sometimes, I wish I was the baby, and Tuggie was the big one. But then I remember—he needs me. I’m the big sister. I’m four and a half. I can count to twenty. I can keep us safe. I can wait till Mommy’s better. I can wait till Daddy brings food. I can wait. I can wait.

I’m really good at waiting.