The journey from little brother to Big Uncle

All through elementary school, I was jealous. Everyone but me, it seemed, was the oldest of a thirty-something couple's two or three kids.

And from Charles Landrum to Joy Hansberger, they all had just what I wanted. Some even had two. The object of my covetousness? A baby brother or sister.

I heard stories. Stories of books read at bedtime, of Superman rides given, of first steps coaxed from wobbling legs. And I felt I had missed out — I had missed out on this role as an older brother.

Just to be perfectly clear, I did have a younger brother. But he was only two years younger, and by the time I was at the point of wanting a baby sibling, he and I were too busy fighting over everything in sight to spend much time bonding.

Compared to the other kids, I had been born a good bit further along in my parents' years of fruitfulness — about seven kids further along, to be exact. By the time I first sucked air, my oldest sister Eugenie was applying to college. And by my fifth birthday — much as I wondered why my folks couldn't just crank out a 10th little Allen — it was clear enough: I would never have a significantly younger sibling to drag around.

So by the time Eugenie called home in the spring of 1989, I was pretty much resigned. But my resignation evaporated instantly: Eugenie, quite obligingly, had become pregnant. By year's end, I would be an uncle.

I told everyone at school, of course. How could I help it? Soon, whenever someone told a story about her renegade little sister or her adorable baby brother, I'd be able to counter with: "Yeah? Well my niece . . ." (When I did eventually try this, they just laughed, called me "Uncle Ben," and walked away.)

I'll admit it: for the first few years of unclehood, I was only in it for the ego trip. (For evidence, look no farther than my convenient disappearance at the faintest whiff of a dirty diaper.) After all, what's better than a semi-articulate, grinning little being who visits two weekends a year, laughs uncontrollably whenever you puff out your cheeks, and shouts your name through a mouth full of applesauce whenever you walk into the room? (Trust me, it was a pretty sweet deal.)

I think the highlight of the early years was a visit by Emily et. al. to our home in Georgia. I was 10 or so, so she must have been one or two years old. As we drew near the end of an afternoon spent playing (read: babysitting) in the den, Emily tripped, smacking her head on the TV table en route to the floor. As the wails rose from her throat, my mom came running to pick her up, but Emily would have none of it. She reached for me, and my mom handed her over. Her crying ceased.

There are less wholesome stories, of course. To this day, Emili — who changed the spelling of her name in second grade and hasn't looked back — swears that my little brother and I once tried to put her in the oven. I, for one, remember no such thing, and neither does Matt. (Right, Matt?) In any case, I'm sure the oven wasn't that hot.

Then there was the time, a while after my family moved to Virginia, when Emili, tears in her eyes and feet full of prickles, accused me of deliberately leading her barefoot into a patch of, well, prickles. She didn't speak to me for an entire hour; I had a creeping suspicion that, in my niece's eyes, I had fallen from Olympus.

Four years later, my fall is nearly complete. Emili, now 11, is joined by a sister, Sarah, age eight; a brother, John, three; and two cousins: Christopher, nine, and Beth, seven. Emili has honed a humbling new stance towards me — and she's taken the rest of the crew with her. Gone, for instance, are the days of being reverentially addressed as "Uncah Ben." Now it's "crackhead spameater" in an IM from Emili; the always-devastating "Hairy Cat Tofu" from Sarah (don't ask; I honestly do not know); a mischievous "Poo-poo face" from Christopher, probably in hopes that I'll chase him; and from Beth — so far — no more or less than a simple, joyous "BENNY!" as she vaults into my outstretched arms.

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As for John, aging fast at three, he hasn't yet come up with any assaults on my unclehood, but I'm sure that Emili and Sarah are grooming him right along, and that his opening jabs will cut right to the bone.

Unless:

Hey John, if you're out there, hear this: Remember that fire truck you kept asking me about last month? Yep, that's right — the big red one you're expecting from me for Christmas 2001?

Best watch your mouth, kiddo.

Ben Allen '03 is an English major from Crozet, Va.

'A Glimpse Within' is a weekly column in which we ask members of the Princeton community to share personal experiences. The 'Prince' welcomes submissions of about 650 words to The Newsroom.