About ten minutes after arriving at Lewis House, the YWAM base, a random girl came into the room and said, “You look old. How old are you?” She was a bubbly 18 year old. After that, several more bubbly 18 year olds (or bumbling, if we’re talking about the big guys who still seem like they are growing into their bodies) have asked me how old I am. Another common question is if I’m on staff. Well, no. Actually, most of the staff are three or four years younger than me. So.
At church last Sunday, one girl introduced me and the other “old” student (25) to someone as the “mothers of the group.” I thought it was too early on in the school to slap her and not look like a totally horrible person. I’m the least maternal person you’ve ever met, so I don’t know where she came up with that. I mean, I would never leave a baby in a dumpster, but I’m also not going to offer to rub your back or make you a PB and J with the crusts cut off, either. (By the way, did you know Aussies don’t eat peanut butter and jelly and think the concept is crazy?)
Most of the kids (especially the boys) have told me they see me as a “big sister.” I guess that’s okay. As long as I’m the cool older sister that you always want to hang out with but she doesn’t always let you, like DJ from Full House, and not the awful older sister like in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, who’s always out to ruin someone’s life. I’m kind of growing paranoid that sometimes when I walk into the room, a conversation stops because they don’t want their big sister hearing. Oh well…I wouldn’t go back to being 18 even if you paid me, so I guess I’ll stick with being DJ for a while.