Gifts from our eldest: being the oldest daughter in a large family comes with both a blessing and a curse.

Last night four-year-old Emma and I were alone at the dinner table, when she suddenly burst out, "I don't believe Mary hates her family."

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

"Oh," I replied, nonplussed. The Mary in question is our eldest, 19. Emma looked at me intently, eyes like saucers, and at the top of her voice, repeated, stressing every word, "I don't believe Mary hates her family."

"Uh, do you think Mary likes her family?" I asked innocently.

"No," she said indignantly.

"Oh, I see, so she hates her family." (I suspected that she was piling up the negatives for emphasis, as in ancient Greek.)

Probing a little, I asked, "So, do you like Mary?" Snorting, Emma said, "No, she makes us go outside to play when Nora is sleeping, even if I'm tired, and she doesn't let us in the kitchen when she's cooking." How contrary.

Trying to distract her, I asked, "Is Mary ever nice?" After an initial, "No," she hesitated. Then suddenly her voice softened, "Well, she took me to grandma's all by myself." That little kindness seems to have made a big impression on Emma, for soon, staring off into space, she murmured, "I think she actually loves her family."

So I asked, "Who's your favourite sister?" After a brief thumb suck, Emma replied, "Mary." Emma unwittingly revealed both the blessing and curse of our eldest: dispassionate orderliness.

Mary is coldly efficient. But she does realize this is two-edged. She and I were conversing recently with a new acquaintance, a mother of seven, who warily queried me, "I suppose you're one of those organized women?"--implying she wasn't. Mary's immediate guffaw reassured her that I wasn't, either; we both relaxed.

Mary then told her how, while I was away, she'd breakfasted the little girls, cleaned up, packed a lunch and emergency clothing, and had everyone out to the zoo by 10 a.m. flat. "But had you talked to them at all?" I mused aloud. Laughing, Mary replied that, raising her own kids, she'd be more orderly than me, but she'd have to work on that mothering bit.

Eldest daughters of large families have responsibility thrust on them at an early age. A friend once mentioned that her daughter, eldest to two sets of twins, was an expert diaper changer by age four. Not many misty sentiments about babies there.

So I'm beginning to understand our Mary. Along with being the eldest, she has for many years suffered a chronic illness. And as any parent of a sick child knows, that, too, enforces early maturity. Though Mary would never have chosen illness, she's grateful for what it's taught her.

But our lives are about to change now. Though we're excited for Mary, and not at all surprised, we're saddened that she's leaving for a new, more orderly life, away from all of us. A month ago, Mary completed her university application, was accepted, and has since applied for a passport and financial aid, gotten a credit card, and booked her flight to southern Florida, all by herself.

A year ago, I was lamenting the loss of Greg, off to a distant boarding high school, for he seemed so young and vulnerable. But Mary's health aside, her case is entirely different: she's entirely her own person.

The university offers a weekend parents' orientation, with tours, financial aid meetings, and general anxiety reduction for traumatized parents. I do feel I should be there. But our Mary has handled everything herself to this point. For us to get involved now would seem like grabbing the ball just to carry it over the line. So we're sending her off from here. I sound like a boastful mom, but the things Mary has overcome and the burdens she'll likely bear for the rest of her life make it impossible for us not to admire her.

Mary, Mary Quite Contrary. She was our one baby who never wanted to cuddle, even as an infant insisting she be held facing outward to survey the world. How your garden does grow. Mair-mair, we'll miss your Indian cooking, deadpan wit and neat movie selections. (Ushpizin was her discovery.)

And we'll miss you.