A mother of three emailed me a funny forward describing how moms treat their children differently based on birth order. At least, she thought it was funny. “First baby: You pick up at the first whimper. Second baby: You pick up if cries threaten to wake first born. Third baby: You teach toddler to rewind mechanical swing.” I didn’t find it funny. I was baby number nine in my family, and we didn’t have a mechanical swing.
While I have no memories of this, I suspect I know what happened, if not when I whimpered, at least when I wailed. Child one, two, or three probably picked me up. That’s how it is in big families. Big kids care for little kids—or torment them.
Maybe that’s why as a child I daydreamed of living alone in a chicken coop in the backyard. Not the one with the chickens in it. No, my chicken coop was decked out—and clean. In my fantasy, my parents brought me meals and none of my nine siblings entered unless I invited them. I’d feel guilty admitting this publicly if I wasn’t so sure some of them wished I lived in the chicken coop too. Tormenting is a two-way street.
Besides I’ll bet they had similar daydreams, though theirs may have featured more luxurious accommodations. You crave space when you grow up with nine siblings in a three-bedroom house with one bathroom.
Seven of my siblings were boys so, counting their buddies, there were forty or fifty boys around all the time. Maybe I’m exaggerating, but I swear more than once I heard my father ask my mother, “Is he one of ours?”
Growing up with so many boys, I naturally became a sports fan. Even today when anyone asks who I’m rooting for in the Super Bowl, I answer enthusiastically, “Who’s playing?” That’s because when there was a game on, there was no room for me on the couch. And being number nine, I was in no position to push anyone else off.
I still loved sports, but not because I wanted to watch them. A game on TV meant my brothers were occupied. It meant peace—unless I walked in front of the television. It was the next best thing to living in a decked-out chicken coop.
The downside was the dishes. I grew up thinking men invented football to get out of doing dishes on Sunday. And there were a lot of dishes—and not just on Sunday.
But Sunday dinner was special. Along with all the trimmings, my mother often made her legendary fried chicken. Drumsticks were my favorite and there are a lot of drumsticks when you cook chicken for a family of twelve. But in a big family, you have to eat fast if you want seconds. Drumsticks were also my younger brother’s favorite piece—and he ate faster than I did. That’s still a bone of contention between us.
The other thing you have to do fast is get in the bathroom—or wait. We learned to be patient—and assertive when necessary. We learned to put others first—especially if the others were bigger than we were. And we learned to plan. There’s nothing spontaneous about taking a shower in a large family with one bathroom. To maintain peace, it was necessary we declare our intentions before showering, to make sure no one had more pressing business.
I don’t know how big our hot water heater was, but I know it wasn’t big enough. So, one of my sisters and I devised a scheme to get our share of the hot water. One of us left the bathroom door unlocked while we showered. The other snuck in while no one was looking and stepped into the shower just as we were stepping out. We’d leave the water running so our brothers wouldn’t know they’d just missed their turn. I’m amazed at how many times it worked before one brother caught on and turned off the hot water heater valve in the middle of my shower. That still sticks in my craw.
Not really. Today my siblings are my friends and getting together is wonderful. We all get along. We all have plenty of bathrooms. And no one lives in a chicken coop.
