By Adriana Ungerleider ’12, Scroll Photo Editor
“A leaf! A leaf! Stop! STOP!” Gleeful squeals emanate from the squeaky red wagon I have been dragging for the past half hour. I look down. There, at my feet, is the biggest, most magnificent golden leaf in the world. Well, it would probably look that way if you were three years old, anyway. I sigh, and bend down to rescue the glorious leaf. Handing it to my sister, I can’t help but smile. She wriggles with
delight, and waves it like a flag. As we walk, I notice that my pace has slowed to a steady plod, my eyes fixed on the leaf-strewn path. Even before I hear the imperious commands of my passenger, I have paused to pick up a shiny acorn which was in danger of being crushed by some rogue bicyclist. Madeline has taught me well.
When my stepfather moved out six months after my sister was born, I accompanied Madeline on endless overnight visits. She was my baby sister, and I was going to look out for her. Even when Jason began to ignore me for days on end, I knew that Madeline needed me. For me, helping to raise Madeline was never going to be a spectator sport. When she was tiny, I loved knowing that I was the best at swaddling her like a flannel-wrapped, flailing burrito. I helped pick out a closet full of miniscule pink clothes, and quickly learned to handle even the most disastrous of diapering dilemmas.
In the past three years, I have read more picture books than I can count. I
can recite “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom” by heart, and characters from Thomas the Tank make frequent appearances in my dreams. I have corroborated the existence of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Pumpkin Fairy. My credentials speak for themselves: Madeline still has no idea how her Halloween candy was replaced with a Polly Pocket. Rescuing her goldfish from the devious clutches of the family cat has escalated into a daily exercise in counter-terrorism protocols. In the three years since Madeline’s birth, my mother and I have become a team, a toddler-raising force to be reckoned with. I am a champion grape-slicer, a compulsive shoe-tier, and a gold medalist in naptime negotiations.
Even at 7:00 am on a Saturday, I have to smile when Madeline bursts through my door in her ballerina pajamas and Shirley Temple curls. Even when she mixes saltine-and-cinnamon “cookies” while I try to make dinner; even when she interrupts my phone conversations with her newfound “beautiful singing voice” (slightly reminiscent of a tone-deaf parakeet). Madeline’s sudden appearance in my life helped me realize that I am more than the sum of my SAT scores and extracurriculars. I am a caretaker, a teacher, a playmate and a friend. I am a fundamental element in my quirky little family of three. In the eyes of one long-legged, baby-faced three-year-old girl, I am a champion.
