(by Dr Flex)
The Birth of a Legend
You know, being the eldest child isn't something you choose. It's not a career path, it's a trap. One minute, you're vibing in the womb, probably planning your debut like Beyoncé; next thing you know, boom, you're launched into the world as the family's unpaid intern.
My birth was dramatic; apparently, I came out frowning. The nurse said, "This baby looks like he already knows responsibility."
That was the first prophecy. My mom said I was "different." Translation: this one will suffer so the others may live lavishly.
When you're the firstborn, your parents treat you like a trial version of parenting.
Everything is an experiment. You're basically a beta test for motherhood and fatherhood combined. They're Googling how to raise a baby while you're crying in 4K.
I remember being five, trying to figure out why I had bedtime at 8 p.m. while my little brother later had bedtime at 'whenever he feels like it.' I asked Mom, "Why does he stay up?" She said, "Because I'm tired."
Ma'am, you were also tired when I was five, you just had more energy for justice back then!
And don't get me started on baby pictures. As the eldest, your childhood is documented like a national project. There's a whole photo album titled 'Our First Miracle.' The second child? Three blurry photos and a video of him eating sand.
The third? We don't even know if he exists on film. He might be a rumor.
Parents will hype you up like you're their greatest accomplishment — until the next one comes along. Suddenly, the compliments downgrade from "You're the best thing that ever happened to me" to "You're old enough to watch your brother, right?"
I knew it was over the day Mom handed me a diaper and said, "You're the big one now."
I was four.
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Responsibilities Nobody Asked For
The eldest child doesn't get a childhood — we get training. You become the deputy parent. Your job description includes babysitting, cooking noodles that taste like despair, and pretending to enjoy cartoons you've outgrown.
At age ten, I had more responsibilities than some managers. "Dr Flex, make sure your brother eats." "Dr Flex, help your sister with her homework." "Dr Flex, don't let the house burn down." Meanwhile, my actual parents? Watching TV like, "You're doing great, champ!"
If a younger sibling cries, everyone looks at you like you caused global warming.
"Why is he crying, Flex?"
"I don't know, he just discovered gravity."
"Well, fix it."
How, mother? Am I NASA?
Being the eldest means you get blamed for every sibling crime. My little brother could stab the couch with a fork and I'd still get a lecture. "You should have been watching him." Lady, I was in school!
"Yes, but you should've felt it in your spirit!"
And heaven forbid your sibling wins something. You taught them the answers? "Well, he's smart."
You win something? "Of course, you're older."
There's no victory. You're like Batman — respected, but forever traumatized.
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The School of Pain and Patience
Let's talk about school. Teachers love eldest children because we're usually the "responsible ones." But that title is a curse.
You get one A on a math test, and suddenly you're the reference point for all your siblings' future suffering.
My little sister's teacher literally told her, "I had your brother two years ago. He was so disciplined!" Ma'am, that's not a compliment. That's a death sentence. My sister looked at me like I betrayed her personally.
You can't even slack off. If you fail one test, your parents hold a full family meeting. "Dr Flex, how could you? You're supposed to set an example!"
For who? For my brother who just ate a Lego?
And group projects? Please. I carried enough group projects to qualify for free back surgery.
You always end up doing everyone's work, because deep down, you've been trained since birth to take responsibility for other people's nonsense.
I once helped my little brother build a volcano for his science fair. He won first place. I asked, "Aren't you going to thank me?" He said, "You're the eldest, it's your job." That night, I googled orphanages out of spite.
But being the eldest also teaches patience. Like, supernatural patience.
You develop a mental force field that blocks chaos. You can hear your siblings screaming and still sip your coffee in peace.
You reach a stage where your soul just vibrates calmly through the madness.
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The Myth of the Favorite Child
Let's be honest — the favorite child is never the eldest. It's either the youngest or the one who pretends to be weak enough to get sympathy points.
My youngest sister once cried because she "missed her imaginary friend." My mom hugged her for twenty minutes. When I cried because I missed my phone charger, she said, "Go charge your attitude."
When I was a kid, I asked my parents for a bike. They said, "Maybe next year." My little brother sneezed once, and they bought him a motorbike and a helmet with his name on it.
The favoritism hurts, but you get used to it. You stop competing for affection and start collecting emotional receipts. Like, "Oh, I remember when you didn't buy me ice cream. Interesting. Very interesting. I'll bring this up at your 70th birthday."
The middle child is dramatic, the youngest is spoiled, but the eldest? We're the unpaid therapist of the house. We're the ones people call when the Wi-Fi stops working or the remote goes missing. Somehow, we became the tech support and emotional support.
But hey — that's okay. Because deep down, we know they depend on us. And we'll never let them forget it.
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The Survival Rewards
Here's the twist: being the eldest actually builds character. You grow up resilient, adaptable, and just a little bit unhinged — the holy trinity of adulthood.
You learn leadership because you've been leading chaos since diapers. You learn diplomacy because you've been negotiating bedtime extensions since 2005. You learn budgeting because Mom always gave you one juice box to share among three siblings.
That's math, economics, and emotional management all in one.
And the best part? You develop legendary storytelling skills. Because when you're the eldest, every childhood story starts with, "So there I was, minding my business, when my siblings decided to ruin everything."
We might joke, we might rant, but let's be real — we wouldn't trade it. Being the eldest means you're the family's backbone, the original soldier, the first pancake that turned out slightly burnt but taught everyone how to make the next one better.
So, shoutout to all my fellow eldest children out there. You may not get the biggest slice of cake, but you did teach everyone else how to use the knife.
Now if you'll excuse me, my little brother just texted me asking how to boil water again.
And yes, he's 20.
Video Ends