My Memo to Management at Age 8: Eldest Daughter Syndrome, Exhibit A

11 minutes ago

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I found this letter in my dad's desk after he died. It makes me laugh every time I see it.

At eight, I had personal letterhead and a formal complaints process. I don't remember being the female version of Alex P. Keaton, but maybe I was.

My sister Meg pinched my butt (which I politely referred to as my "behind"--we were southern) while I was almost asleep. Naturally, I notified management in writing.

All in pencil, on stationery that said FROM THE DESK OF MICHELLE BEILSMITH. (My maiden name.) I had neither a desk nor a salary.

I know that girl

Then I looked at the letter a little longer, because I know her.

She documents. She negotiates (some people back in the day called it bossy, and she may have heard it recently from my almost 80-year-old mother). She takes charge, and she makes sure everyone's feelings are okay while she does it. Even when she's the one who got pinched.

She's still here. Last week she made my husband help her make our bed before a 5 a.m. ride to the airport, because she couldn't stand the thought of the dogsitter seeing it unmade.

What eldest daughter syndrome is

Not everyone had management to write to

This week in one of my M +M groups, one woman said that sitting down for ten minutes to think or rest feels indulgent. Maybe even a little lazy, because she isn't doing the chores or producing anything. She knows it's not true. She feels it anyway.

After that, in the same meeting, we named our inner critics. We gave them actual names, outfits, a spot in the room. Almost every one turned out to be a voice from a long time ago. Some sounded like the mean girl in school. Some sounded like the women who raised us.

That's when I looked at my letter differently. That eight-year-old was lucky. She had someone to complain to, and she trusted that someone would "talk to Meg about it." Not everyone did. For some of us, the voice saying you should be doing more is the voice that was supposed to be management.

My answer was a question back. Why does that have to be the qualifier? You don't have to earn ten minutes on the couch. Rest isn't a reward for finishing the list.

She can put it down

That eight-year-old doesn't need to be fired. She needs someone to take care of her for a change, and to tell her she can put it down.

She took on those jobs because they kept things calm. She was good at them. She still is. She just doesn't have to carry all of them anymore.

Try it: your eight-year-old's job description

Write down the jobs you took on as a kid. Peacekeeper. Note-taker. The one who didn't make a fuss.

Next to each one, write whose voice handed it to you. Then write keep or put down.

Most of us find a few we'd keep forever. And a few we've been carrying for decades because someone handed them to us a long time ago.

And if you're an oldest daughter, send this another one you know and love. She'll want a copy for her records.