When I was six I was mesmerized by my baby sister, in awe of her cuteness and size, amazed at the way she won hearts with a smile and a coo. In fact, I might’ve been jealous if my mother hadn’t anticipated that possibility from the start and made sure to include me in nearly every thing she did for her. As a result, I became convinced I could do as much for my sister as any adult if given the opportunity. There came a day when I begged my mother to let me put her down for her afternoon nap. I’d seen my mother do it often enough, cradling her in her arms, singing a soft lullaby while she rocked her in the plush, red rocker. My mother hesitated, but I persisted, and she finally agreed. I sat patiently in the chair while she created a nest of blankets in my lap, then deposited my sister at its center. I wrapped my arms around her, rocked, and sang the sweetest, softest song I could think of while she gazed up at me with blue eyes, sucking her pacifier. Ten minutes later she was still fully awake so I changed the song and tempo of my rocking. In another ten minutes, I called out to my mother that my sister wasn’t cooperating. My mother called back from the kitchen, advising patience was the key. I frowned at my sister, who grinned back and gurgled. I took a deep breath, changed my song and rocking yet again, and continued on for at least another ten minutes, maybe more. I’m not really sure. At some point, my mother slipped back into the room and took my sister from me, humming and swaying until her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep. She laid her in her crib and went back to her work in the kitchen, careful not to wake me. One afternoon when I was six and my sister was a baby, she rocked me to sleep in the plush red rocker.