**My dad really appreciates this one, but I never finished it. I think I wrote it before I left on my mission so pre-October 2002.
My family was never like the ones on tv. I never heard the gentle, elevator music playing in the background when my parents explained, with the board of “Education,” what I had done wrong. Although my memory is fuzzy, I’m almost certain my brothers and sisters never gave a hug goodbye or even a concerned pat on the shoulder after a hard day.
A pack of hyenas is what my dad compares us to most often, not that he excludes himself. If, by some strange chance my family, or even just a couple of us, ever happened to be in each others company you had to be on guard. Whoever made the first wrong comment, movement or even bodily function would immediately be attacked without mercy. Even after a half an hour or more of constant ridicule from the entire group the victim remained almost unmoved, with the exception of the baby of the family. At the first scent of a teasing barrage of insults she, habitually, would become indignant and stomp out of the room. After which everyone would comment on the obviousness of her family status.
Don’t get the wrong idea, my family isn’t exactly the Cleavers, and can’t be compared to Full House, but we’re not quite the Simpson’s either. But that’s a matter of opinion.
It seems like the most important people that come into our lives are never chosen. I mean, having a little sister was never on the top of my list of “Things I Have to Have.” So we don’t choose our family, some say you don’t even choose who you fall in love with. But with that sick sense of humor life seems to have it almost seems as if the person most people pick to spend the rest of their lives with is, in fact, someone who could be mistaken for one of the family. It’s no wonder, I think. You’re trained from a young age, by the time it comes down to making a choice there’s no hope. It seems like anyone who can’t excrete a bodily gas on demand, or couldn’t say for sure what “tiger bait” is, just doesn’t measure up.
I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Let’s start from the beginning. Otherwise, we might miss a whole lot of “interesting” fun facts.
Chapter One
“The Beginning as I Know It”
As my dad would put it, I was an October or November baby. An accident, in my mother’s words. But she said that about the four before me and the one after me too. We could be the poster family for Planned Parenthood.
In reality I was born in May, the 25th to be exact. Premature by a month or two. I’ll let you in on my reasons for my intentional early arrival. First, it would be one of the few times, in my life, I was early to anything. Second, I like to pretend I’m a nonconformist, and finally, I refused to let my cousin, Kellie, be older than me.
I must have known it would be my only hold over her. To say the least, it is still something spoken about in less than sweet words at family Christmas parties. Truly I could be the bigger person and not say anything, but if you were me you would take every opportunity too. Believe me, I’ve earned it.
Back to the blessed day. I was early and conveniently born on Memorial Day…my dad had the day off. From the beginning I was like any other baby, small, red and ugly. Lucky for me my parents kept me anyway, at least that’s what they’ve tried to say.
I’ve heard the stories a thousand times. Truthfully, I could hear them a thousand more. Everyone loves being the center of attention, especially when it’s from their mom. In a family of 6 you can count those moments on one hand.
The hospital I was born in didn’t really have a Preemie Unit so I took my first ambulance ride three miles up the road to a different hospital. I was –huge- compared to the other babies. Each of us were tucked away stark naked in incubators. If you think about it, it’s kind of like food in Tupperware. You can get a good look at what’s inside before deciding if you want it, and if you don’t right a way it keeps fresh for later.
My Grandma Stone saw the other babies surrounded by stuffed animals and toys and brought me a white gorilla with plastic hands and face that could suck its thumb, that way I didn’t look completely abandoned. It’s a good thing babies don’t really open their eyes much when they’re first born. I can only imagine waking up to find a giant monkey sharing my bed, it’s like Planet of the Apes in baby form.
I loved that gorilla, it’s secretly stashed away somewhere close by. Poor thing, it took the brunt of the blame for my sucking my finger for the rest of my childhood. Way to take one for the team.
Like any other premature baby, I wasn’t working quite right. So my parents left me in my Tupperware under the watchful eye of my gorilla for a couple of weeks. Some kids don’t like or know how to eat I guess, but I sure compensated for that later.
In a notebook, my mom wrote that when they brought me home all my brothers and sister were excited. They kissed me and hugged me. It’s hard to imagine that, now when I walk in the house I’m immediately met with an insult, silence, or angry accusation. Some might call it sad, but in my family it really means, “Hello, how was your day? I missed you.” Only five minutes ago my little sister got home from a four day camping trip and her first words were. “Who took my car!?” After asking to borrow mine to go pick up her gear I responded, “No, you can’t take my car. I don’t want you or your stinky stuff in it!” It brings a tear to the eye.
To make a long introduction short, I came home, went back, came home, went back and about a month or so later came home for keeps. My mom says I was always a nice, quiet, content baby. I hardly ever cried or fussed. Which wasn’t always in my best interest. On several occasions I was found in strange conditions.
Once my face had mysteriously been colored purple with a magic marker. Another time, fit to compliment a spaghetti dinner, I had been thoroughly doused in Italian dressing and Parmesan cheese. I never could understand her bewilderment at my silence when my eyes had been secured shut with Elmer’s Glue. But in case you were worried, I lived.
It was near the 24 month old mark I no longer was the baby they would set on the Lazy Susan during dinner and sing, “There’s an Anne, Anne, Anne on the table, table, table.” Catchy tune, it’s still whistled if not sung every once in a while.
Enter the Terrible Two’s. I think that is an old wives tale. I can’t say that I was terrible. Although, it was about that time I became apprenticed to the Dark Side….of sorts.
Chapter Two
“A Team of Towheads”
