Parenting Before Boobs: The Wild Life of an Oldest Daughter

Before I raised girls, I raised boys.

Yep. I’m a millennial eldest daughter who oscillates between compulsive people-pleasing and full-blown ice queen energy. I’ve been in the business of raising humans for literal decades.

Way before I was ever a mom, I had younger brothers. Still do and it’s unfair that they’re both taller than me now. And they’re the only two who can still get away with calling me Kim and live to tell about it.

Basically, I was changing diapers, putting Band-Aids on skinned knees, and looking for that blanket every single night, all while figuring out how to drive, put eyeliner on, and sneak out without getting caught. (It helped that my room was on the first floor, sorry mom…again.)

My middle brother is married and living his best life. Honestly he won’t even read this post.

My baby brother who’s 11 years younger than me and not even 30 yet (that part has me mildly crashing out), just drove himself to Wisconsin for training for a new job. This is the same kid who just figured out online banking. Two months ago. TWO MONTHS AGO. I wish I were kidding. But sure, drive across the country like you’re a full-grown adult or something.

I got married young (much to my grandmother’s dismay) and had three babies by the time I was his age. 

And he was my sidekick. My tagalong. If I went to the store, he came. Wanted to hang out with my boyfriend? He was there. (Pretty sure mom knew what she was doing there.)

I picked him up from school, gave him snacks, helped with homework, taught him to swim (if you count letting him sink-or-swim), and let him crawl into bed with me on Christmas morning before he woke anyone else up. 

Truth is, I’ve always been more of a second mom than big sister. Still am. I boss him around, send advice he didn’t ask for, and send him an absurd amount of TikToks. And now he’s texting me updates about life and work like he didn’t pee on me once or twice. (It’s fine. I punched him at a funeral a few months ago. We’re even. Sibling stuff. Don’t come for me.)

This is not my first rodeo with Gen Z. I’ve been managing the chaos since 1997. If you’re doing the math, that means I started raising kids while I was still technically a kid myself.

And while it wasn’t all bad, it was definitely a lot. A lot of responsibility. Bedtime routines. Last-minute science projects. Even one emergency room visit where I had to explain I was in fact not the adult, but was the closest they were going to get.

Oldest daughters are built different. 

Yesterday, I was angry at nothing in particular and everything all at once. So I did what any highly functioning emotionally repressed eldest daughter does: I got myself an ice cream cone and blasted angry girl music in the car. Did it fix my mood? I’m not saying it did. But I’m not not saying that either.

Here’s the thing: oldest daughters carry a lot. But we also absorb more wisdom than most people collect in a lifetime. By 16, I was more emotionally mature than half the 40-year olds I know. 

And that’s exactly why I run my business the way I do. 

I have zero tolerance for nonsense. 

I will absolutely ghost you if you drain my energy. 

And I’m not babysitting your feelings. I’ve done my time with that and I’m over it.

But if you’re honest, show up, and mean what you say? I will go to bat for you.

So yeah. If you’re looking for fluffy, fake-nice vibes, I’m not your girl. 

But if you want strategy, substance, and someone who’s been managing unpredictable humans since Y2K?

Pull up a chair. Just don’t touch my ice cream.