Dubious Honors

There is a fascinating indefinable quality to being twenty-three and still living at home. Especially where one's little siblings are concerned.

One is not strictly a sibling, in so far as you are two or three times their age, and therefore a grown-up. You can hand down judgement, break up fights with a well-placed Look Of Death, and possess kissing power over injuries (rather like a certified paramedic, only cuter).

On the other hand, one is certainly not a parent -- as is readily apparent by the fact that you participate in the same chore schedule, and still have to eat oatmeal.

From one minute to the next, one's status is fluctuating like a slinky, and yet... I can't bring myself to mind. Certainly not when we're horsing around and teasing, as if we were both ten-year-olds. And not even when more mature and dubious honors come knocking.

At one o' clock this morning, my little sister Lily tapped my shoulder. "Sarah!" she whispered urgently, and urgency is needed when you wake me, because I sleep like that rock folks are always talking about.

"What, Lily?"

"I wet my bed."

Cue the mental groan. Bless her heart, she's gotten really good with wearing big girl underwear to bed, but the past couple mornings she's been soaked when she comes out for breakfast. Why, I can't help asking myself, did she have to wake up and notice? An even more awful part of my mind wants to tell her to tough it and go back to bed, but of course I can't do that. I still remember my own bed-wetting days, and Lily's fastidious, like me -- she'll be miserable.

That thought having been laboriously cleared from my mind, I finally pause to wonder why she's telling ME this? In order to tell me, of all the people in the house, she has to traverse a dark hallway, a dark staircase, an even darker basement, and a bedroom black as a cave. Mommy and Daddy are much closer to her bedroom, on purpose for such emergencies. Though I do frequently put her to bed, I hadn't done so that night: Katy had, and Katy's room is also much closer to Lily's.

It's weird. But flattering... in a weird way.

Anyhow, I drag myself out of bed, guide her to the bathroom to take off her wet p.j.s, and twist the faucet over to hot. By the glow of her nightlight, I strip off the sheets and check to make sure none of her stuffed animals smell bad. By time I come back with clean p.j.s and a pull-up diaper (remember that adage about locking the barn door?), the water has warmed up. I help her wash, then she dresses herself while I wipe down the plastic sheet and put on a fresh sheet and blanket. When she climbs into bed, I tuck her in, kiss her good-night (make that 'morning'), gather up the wet stuff and stagger back to bed, by way of the laundry room.

I manage just a few incoherant snatches of thought before I lose consciousness. Amazingly enough, even at this hour, I still look forward to having me own kids someday. I'm glad I'm still living at home. I'm glad that I know how to handle these micro-disasters. I'm glad Lily trusted me not to snap at her for waking me up. I'm glad I'm not four anymore. And I'll be even more glad if nobody wakes me before eight.