I have four sons, but even more than that, I am the mother of four brothers. My sons have always been very brother-forward, right from their first days as brothers. They are good sons, sure. They love me, sure. But man oh man, are they ever excellent brothers.
It started early. So early I don’t think the stitches from birthing son number two were even healed when his older brother started to want to be the main attraction. He wanted his baby brother to need him, not me. “Doesn’t he even know I’m his brother?” he complained to me, kicking at the end of the couch while I nursed the baby. I pointed out that I was the mother of his baby brother and he needed me for everything. To eat, to change his diaper, to keep him safe. He gave me this look. Sweet yet gently foreboding. Like he was planning ahead to a time when this might not be the case. When I would stop being my baby’s main food source. When that baby would grow into a boy who could walk and talk. And then they would become an unstoppable force and I could possibly come along for the ride.
It was mostly sweet, the way the boys thought about each other all the time. By the time I had baby boy number four, or should I say brother number four, the oldest two were watching me like hawks for any mistakes I might make. They had their little mental checklists at the ready for me every day after school, just in case. “Did you put him in his cradle to sleep? Did you flip him over?” they would ask me before their backpacks hit the floor. “Did you give him a bath when I was gone?”
Aw, cute, I thought, perhaps foolishly. I’m going to really cultivate this.
And I really did cultivate their kinship, especially once I became a single mom. I relished their love for each other. When one son protected his brother during a school fight, I was so proud of him. When two brothers were on the same football team, I cheered like a maniac. Not for their team, really, but for the time they were spending together.
I saw in those moments their future together as adult men after I would be dead and buried. I saw them supporting each other, going on weekends to some rustic cabin together to smoke meats and drink whiskey and do whatever adult brothers might do together to maintain healthy relationships. I had no frame of reference, but I did what I could to help these brothers build something together. They walked home from school together. Learned to play instruments together. Two of them babysat for the neighborhood kids together. They liked the same movies, played the same video games, happily cheered for their opposing teams during Super Bowl Sunday while I made chili in the other room. It’s been wonderful.
I just forgot one thing: I forgot to remind them that I’m here too.
From the time when they were little, I’ve always been this shadowy ghost figure in the background who is rarely included in their stories. Their school journal entries called “My fun weekend at the zoo” featured drawings of the four brothers looking at the zebras, or “My fun road trip” where the four boys magically drove to the coast despite the fact that the oldest was just 11 years old. I don’t know where I figured into the story, but I’m guessing it’s in the region of background character or unpaid chauffeur.
We mostly joke about this now that the brothers are adults. Or they mostly joke about it in their reportedly active group chat that is not for me. The family group chat I started for them barely registers a lackluster thumbs-up every few weeks or so.
This is normal. I’m pretty sure it’s normal. And mostly I love it. I love that they get such joy from hanging out. I love that they play basketball together. I love sitting in the other room reading a book while they play Risk and good-naturedly argue. I feel lucky, because I know this could have gone another way. I’ve seen siblings who barely have a word to say to each other in adulthood. I know how difficult that can be. I know how lonely it can be.
I’m relieved, mostly I’m relieved, to know that my sons-the-brothers will still be a family long after I’m gone. I’m fairly confident they’ll be good uncles, good brothers-in-law, good men, because they push each other to be good men, when they don’t have me around anymore.
I just want to politely, gently, kindly remind them that I’m still around now. And I might not be a brother, but they wouldn’t be brothers either if I hadn’t birthed all four of them.
So really I’m just asking:let me in the better family group chat please. I promise I won’t ruin it.
Jen McGuire lives in Canada and teaches life writing workshops where someone cries in every class. When she is not traveling as often as possible she’s trying to organize pie parties and outdoor karaoke with her neighbors. She will sing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” at least once but she’s open to requests. You can find Jen on LinkedIn, Instagram, and Twitter (sorry, X).
source https://www.scarymommy.com/parenting/i-prioritized-raising-good-brothers-over-raising-good-sons
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