Growing up as one of six kids, it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. There were six completely different kids, with completely different thoughts and ideas, and we weren’t always good at meshing them into something that would allow us all to be happy. We played hard, and we fought hard. We teamed up against the neighbor’s four girls. We would stand on one side of the driveway and taunt them, and they stood on their side and gave it right back. We made them pay to ride our brothers’ go-carts, and we threatened to shoot their dogs with BB guns. Of course, that was all when we weren’t being best friends, and playing hide and seek till our moms made us come in after dark. Other times, we teamed up against each other. Aaron and Malachi would build a fort, while Jason and I built our own. We fought over the best locations, and the best tree limbs and rocks. Other times, a few of us would scheme against the other, and laugh at the misfortune that our pranks would cause. I have found myself tied to a tree before, under the guise of playing Cowboys and Indians, and left to cry my eyes out until my Papaw heard my cries and rescued me. I have had my face rubbed in a snow bank, unable to breathe, and sure I was going to suffocate. Aaron and I have made Jason eat things that…well, just weren’t supposed to be ate. We laughed when we made him eat sheet-rock, and we told on him after we made him eat a worm. We have done things so mean that I’m sure our parents would be shocked, and, occasionally, banded together to do something nice. I’m not sure the nice things balanced out the mean ones, but I’m sure they kept us from being beaten and left in closets.
One of those times was not long after our youngest brother was born. Aaron was thirteen, I was eleven, Jason was eight, Malachi was six, and Lucas was four. We had welcomed Seth home with loving and open arms, except for Aaron. At thirteen, he was a bit resentful of the fact that our parents had had yet another baby. It took him a little while to come around. When Seth was a week or two old, he was admitted to Children’s Hospital. He had been born with some infections that weren’t found out, and they had gotten worse. He was in serious condition, and us kids were pretty much oblivious to the situation. We knew he was sick, but we didn’t know how bad. We were sent to our grandparents’ house, while our parents stayed with Seth. After a week or so, Seth was well enough to come home, and, it just so happened, it was our our mother’s thirty-second birthday. Mamaw brought the fact that it was her birthday to our attention, and took us shopping. We each picked a gift for her from the fine selection of quality merchandise at the local Dollar Store. After purchasing the gifts, we bought decorations and a cake mix from the grocery store. Mamaw took us to our house, and parked her car behind it, so they wouldn’t know that we were there. Aaron put up decorations, and I baked a birthday cake for her. At eleven, I was pretty proficient in the kitchen, and the cake turned out perfectly. I frosted it, and used those little, sugar letters to spell out, “Happy Birthday, Mom” on it.
Someone called out, “They’re here!”, and we all scurried into the kitchen to hide. The gifts and the cake were on the table. We heard their key in the door, and then, as they stepped into the living room, Mom said, “Charlie! Look what the kids did.” Right about then, we all jumped out of the kitchen yelling, “Suprise!” and “Happy Birthday!”.
Dad looked pretty proud of us, while mom got teary eyed. For once, she was crying because we did something nice, and not because we were frustrating her to tears. As we passed Seth around, taking turns holding him, mom opened her Dollar Store gifts, and acted like she loved each and every one of them. The cake really was good, though, and we all had a piece.
I guess the majority of our childhood was like that. A mix of mostly fighting and ganging up on each other, and a little bit of redeeming loyalty and comraderie thrown in. I guess it’s still like that today. My brothers are bigger, and the punches they throw at each other are more likely to draw blood and leave bruises. Two of them have joined the military and moved away, and I’ve been gone for four and a half years now. Only two of the boys are really left at home. Every now and then, though, the camraderie breaks through. It’s times like those, that you’re glad you have brothers. I suppose they can see the good in a sister every now and again, too.