I have four sons, but more than anything, I am the mother of four brothers. From the very beginning, my boys have been brother-forward. They are good sons, of course. They love me, of course. But truly, they are exceptional brothers.
It started early. So early, in fact, that I do not think the stitches from giving birth to my second son had even healed before his older brother decided he wanted to be the main attraction. He wanted the baby to need him, not me. “Doesn’t he even know I’m his brother?” he complained, kicking at the end of the couch while I nursed the baby.
I reminded him that I was the baby’s mother, and that his little brother needed me for everything. He needed me to feed him, change him, and keep him safe. My oldest gave me a look that was sweet, but also gently foreboding. It was as though he was already planning for a time when this would no longer be true. A time when I would no longer be the baby’s main food source, when that tiny baby would grow into a boy who could walk and talk, and when the two of them would become an unstoppable force I might be allowed to follow around.
Mostly, it was sweet how constantly they thought about each other. By the time I had baby boy number four, or really brother number four, the oldest two watched me like hawks for any mistakes I might make. Every day after school, they came through the door with their little mental checklists ready before their backpacks even hit the floor. “Did you put him in his cradle to sleep? Did you flip him over? 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 did. I cultivated their kinship, especially after I became a single mom. I cherished their love for each other. When one son protected his brother during a school fight, I was proud of him. When two brothers played on the same football team, I cheered like a maniac, not really for the team, but for the time they were spending together.
In those moments, I imagined their future as adult men, long after I would be dead and buried. I pictured them supporting one another, heading away for weekends at some rustic cabin, smoking meats, drinking whiskey, and doing whatever adult brothers do to maintain healthy relationships. I had no real frame of reference, but I did what I could to help them build something solid together.
They walked home from school together. They learned to play instruments together. Two of them babysat neighborhood kids together. They liked the same movies, played the same video games, and happily cheered for opposing teams on Super Bowl Sunday while I made chili in the other room. It has been wonderful.
I just forgot one thing: I forgot to remind them that I am here too.
From the time they were little, I have often been a shadowy figure in the background, rarely included in their stories. Their school journal entries titled “My fun weekend at the zoo” featured drawings of the four brothers looking at zebras. Their “My fun road trip” stories showed the four boys magically driving to the coast, despite the fact that the oldest was only 11. I am not sure where I fit into these memories, but I suspect it was somewhere between background character and unpaid chauffeur.
We mostly joke about it now that the brothers are adults. Or rather, they mostly joke about it in their reportedly active group chat that does not include me. The family group chat I created for all of us barely earns a lackluster thumbs-up every few weeks.
This is normal. I am pretty sure it is normal. And most of the time, I love it. I love that they get so much joy from being together. I love that they play basketball together. I love sitting in another room with a book while they play Risk and argue good-naturedly. I know I am lucky, because it could have gone another way. I have seen siblings who barely speak to each other as adults. I know how hard that can be. I know how lonely it can feel.
Mostly, I am relieved. I am relieved to know that my sons, the brothers, will still be a family long after I am gone. I feel fairly confident they will be good uncles, good brothers-in-law, and good men, because they push each other to be good men, even when I am no longer around to do it myself.
I just want to politely, gently, and kindly remind them that I am still around right now. I may not be a brother, but they would not be brothers either if I had not birthed all four of them.
So really, I am asking one simple thing: please let me into the better family group chat. I promise I will not ruin it.
I’m Jen McGuire. I live in Canada and teach life writing workshops where someone cries in every class. When I am not traveling as often as possible, I am trying to organize pie parties and outdoor karaoke with my neighbors. I will sing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” at least once, but I am open to requests. You can find me on LinkedIn, Instagram, and Twitter (sorry, X).
Inspired by this post on Scary Mom.
