A Room of My Own

Being the oldest girl can be difficult. Setting the pace, expectations, and examples for younger sisters is not easy. Being the first to mature and need privacy is hard, especially when you share a room.

I was about 10 or 11 when we moved into a big house: a former duplex remodeled into one house. We had a den for the first time and my brother had a room with a locking door (he thought that was great!). He could lock his little sisters out and keep his boy stuff however he wanted. We had a big yard, too, and lots of kids in the neighborhood. But best of all, for me, was the front bedroom. All for me. No sharing.

It was not a very large room, but, oh how I loved it. Red wallpaper with huge white roses; a hand-me-down dresser that had only my clothes in it; a closet with racks that weren't crowded with "baby" clothes; shelves for my books; a twin-sized bed with just enough room for one. For the first time I could remember, I didn't have to share. Only my things wherever I looked. They -- my sisters -- had to stay out unless I invited them in.

At night, I would turn off the light and dance across the floor to slip under the covers and enjoy my solitude. During the day was ample time to be with friends and little ones, but at night I had my own space. For a special treat, Mom and Dad surprised me with a new (used) stereo. I could stack records to drop and play or have one album repeat over and over until I fell asleep. My choice. My records. My space. It was wonderful!

We soon moved away and once again I shared a room. As we became teenagers, though, a shared room was The Best. We could talk about friends and boys and what was happening at school. We shared everything: secrets, clothes, shoes, books, friends and our room. It was that way until our brother married. Then, for awhile, I once more had a room of my own.