Being the youngest in the family

The other day I heard two kids arguing over whose life was worse. They were obviously brothers, because the bigger one was whining about how spoilt the little one was, and how being the oldest was so much more difficult… so I quickly sidled up to the younger one and offered my help.
“Let's take him out,” I suggested in a clandestine whisper, “I reckon I'm strong enough to hold him down while you hit him.” The boy looked at me with alarm in his eyes, then back at his older brother. In a split second the two of them grabbed one another's hands and scampered away as fast as their little legs could carry them.

I'm not embarrassed. If I can score a point for the 'Youngest in the family' club then I won't hesitate to do it. We have to stick together, us 'Youngests', we've had it hard enough already.

No come on, really. I can hear all you 'middle children' leaping to your feet to protest, probably complaining bitterly about how hard you've had it and how us 'Youngests' got spoiled and favourited and molly-coddled and blah blah blah…

No really I'm serious, I can actually hear you. Sit down and give the youngest a chance to say something for once in your lives, will you?

Let's get this out in the open, shall we? LIFE IS NOT BETTER FOR THE YOUNGEST KID IN THE FAMILY! Really, it wasn't, isn't and never will be!

Yes I agree, we youngest ones might have gotten to go on an extra family trip with mom and dad after you guys had left home, probably to some flower show or historical mine tour or something equally riveting. And maybe, just maybe, we got to have our own bedrooms....

But do you really think that bore any weight on the scales of justice in comparison to the trauma we went through? Yes trauma. T.R.A.U.M.A. I bet you it hasn’t even crossed you mind, has it?

I'm not talking about simple things, like always getting the smallest pork chop, or having all our sweets stolen whilst we were asleep (bedtime is 8pm for the youngest), or being called 'Poppet' by mom and 'Poopants' by our older siblings….even at the age of 27.

I'm not even talking about having to wear the worn-out, hand-me-down clothing of our older brothers AND sisters …. including that dreaded bottle-green, bubbly, lycra swimming costume (to this day I despise swimming in public …) In fact if I think about it, wearing hand-me-downs is a 'scarred for life' subject all of its own, isn't it? I mean how do people still recognize that I am a youngest child? Why is it that at just over 40 years of age, people are still giving me their hand-me-down clothes? Worse yet, why do I still accept them gladly, with a warm buzz of excitement filling my heart?

“But you youngest children had it so easy,” I hear the middle and oldest-born taunt, “We had to be the pioneers, all you had to do was follow in our footsteps…”
True, true. But from my experience they were hard footsteps to follow when you'd dressed me up as a little girl, sprayed my butt with mud so it looked like I'd had an 'accident', and taped over my mouth so I couldn't call mom and dad....

I think the worst thing about growing up as the youngest kid in the family was The Fear. I'm sure other Youngest Children will agree. We were never far from The Fear. Obviously the cause varied, but The Fear was always there….

The Fear that my world's biggest Lego tower, carefully and painstakingly built over several weeks, could be destroyed in seconds by an 'accidently' thrown cushion….

The Fear that at any time one of my brothers could hold me down whilst the other brother squatted down and er… 'let one rip' as close to my nose as possible, then tickle me until I gasped for breath....

The Fear that would steal my sleep at night, because my siblings had spent hours convincing me that I wasn't really part of the family, but a stray Goblin that mom and dad (who were really a witch and wizard) had taken in to fatten up for Christmas…

The Fear that the conversation with the first girl I had the courage to actually speak to would be interrupted at any second by my brother telling her about my fictitious Barbie doll collection. ….

The Fear.

Us 'Youngest Kids' never knew what was going to happen. The Fear was ever-present.

And do you know what? Even when we're grown up there's The Fear. The Fear of a conspiracy against us… I read the results of a survey recently (obviously a survey done by a middle / older child), which stated that 90% of the Youngest Kids of this world will grow up to be rebels without any self worth.

Self worth? Your kidding, right? Of course we won't have self-worth. Our parents had to go through a list of seventeen names (including all three dogs, the royal family and Aunt Sally's tortoise) before they could remember ours.

And how can a person who has no photographic evidence of a childhood have any self worth? We aren't idiots. We know full well that the novelty of taking pictures always wears off after the first couple of children have walked their first steps, ridden their first bikes, dressed up for their first day at school etc etc. By the time the last child is doing anything memorable, it's just too much of a pain to get the camera out.

“Look mom, look dad, I've mastered a triple somersault with inward pike and double negative, wide-armed spin and I'm poised to do it off the garage roof into the paddling pool, blindfolded!”
“Sorry son, your older brother has just sewn on his first button and we're trying to get 17 close up photographs of his smug expression…”

I kid you not. Ask any Youngest Child.

I remember when the future Mrs Ed and I were first dating and I had invited her to a family get-together. I unfortunately hadn’t realised that the dog had dug up the box of family slides where I'd buried them under the garden shed and Mom thought watching them would be a good way to spend the evening (oh the joys!). After about three hours I heard a whisper in the darkness.
“So… were you adopted?.... Like… when you were fifteen?”
“No!” I answered from my seat on the floor, “Why would you say that?”

“Well,” the new love of my life quietly observed, “there has been 1475 pictures of your sister, 302 of your elder brother, 93 of your middle brother and well… none of you… unless you count that bit of someone's shoulder in one of the 79 pictures of your sister's Brownie graduation.”

My mother must have overheard, because she proudly exclaimed as the projector clicked and the image of the next slide appeared on the wall.
“Aaah, HERE's one of you Nic, no Jem, no Mark, no Charles, no Diane, no Rover, no Mountbatten, er.. no Poppet, YES! POPPET! There you are in the paddling pool!”

I beamed proudly, but my joy was cut short on hearing my future wife's next observation.
“Actually it isn't him,” she said “That's a little girl. If you look closely there's pink ribbons in her hair…”
Close scrutiny proved her correct. What's more, the tiny child in the slide was a skinny wisp of a thing, and I vaguely remembered being a somewhat pudgy and round little boy, though I had no way to prove it.
“Mom!,” I whined, exceptionally disappointed, “She's wearing my green bubbly costume! How could you?”

My mother sighed.
“Oh I remember now. The neighbour had brought her child Beatrice over for a swim, and I suddenly remembered the overseas family had asked us to send a picture of you and… well… somehow we didn't have any. So we thought…. as Beatrice was such a good looking child…. and your dad had the camera out anyway…

Valentine's Day

So....… It’s Valentine’s day soon.
Who knows what extravagant gift Mrs Ed will be bestowing upon me this year?

I must say, to be honest (and you know that I seldom if ever sway from the truth), that aging spouse of mine has been somewhat slacking in the last year or two when it comes to the art of ‘romancing’.

Gift wise that is.

I’m even starting to suspect that she doesn’t feel quite so endeared to me as she did back then, when I could afford enough vodka to convince her to marry me.

If I think back to the first half of the life-sentence we’ve been betrothed, she was much more of a romantic soul. I remember when the kids were toddlers and sometimes the pressure of running the household became almost overbearing for me (if it wasn’t the continuous chatter of the young whippersnappers disturbing my afternoon naps on the couch, it was Mrs Ed shifting the furniture around to vacuum up the trail of mess they left in their wake) she always made the effort to try and make Valentine’s Day something special. There were times when she used to pack a picnic basket with sandwiches and a few bottles of Amber Nectar, put a blanket in the car and drive me to Jubilee Creek, where she would blindfold me and lead me deep into the forest for a sunset picnic…. Mind you even that was a bit strange, because she always forgot to pack a torch so it would take me ages to find my way back home afterwards. I remember how, as I staggered up the driveway hours later, I would always find her standing at the kitchen window, with that feigned look of disappointment on her face.

But alas, no more. The last few years have become totally humdrum when it comes to Valentine’s day.

It’s not that I don’t try from my side, I really do. Last year I put a big red ribbon around the new wheelbarrow (well, it was almost new – apart from the buckled wheel that tended to clang-clang a lot when she has a full load) but Mrs Ed barely noticed my efforts. And I think I told you about the year before, when she had mentioned she wanted me to go to the clothing store and get her something black and lacy for Valentine’s Day “to spice up our relationship”...

Apparently the safety boots weren’t what she had in mind…. Sigh…

(Worse yet, when I mentioned we couldn’t take them back because of the Hospice Shop’s no return policy she accidently let one of them slip out her hand and it flew across the room and almost broke my nose!)

Am I wrong in thinking that Valentine’s Day becomes more of a challenge as one gets older?

Perhaps it is coming up with something different every year that makes it harder, but one would think that we would get better and better at buying gifts for our loved ones as time goes on. Indeed I know of people who do. My brother-in-law has the whole Valentine’s thing waxed, I must say. Like most of us men he is inclined to forget until the last minute, but this certainly doesn’t deter him from being the best Valentine’s gift producer in the world…..

As the realization hits him (like it hits so many of us men on Valentine’s Day morning) he sprints down to his workshop and, after a general buzzing and whirring of powertools which lasts mere minutes, suddenly he’s back in the kitchen, presenting his deliriously appreciative wife a beautifully created wooden heart with both of their initials carved in the centre, or an Oregon pine coffee table with a cedar wood inlay of figures, remarkably resembling their entire family, or a bunch of roses expertly and oh so delicately welded out of metal…. with the buds sprayed a delicious crimson red…. (I won’t mention this brother in law's name for fear of recrimination by the rest of the world’s population of men).

But I am seriously not that quick thinking…. And there seems to be a large area of no-man’s land between my brain and my hands when it comes to making anything worthwhile. I have tried, of course, but it’s easy to tell that the home-made horrors I create aren’t quite up to the mark.

One year I thought I cracked it. Following the lead of my bro-in-law, I used the resources available to me in the garage, and created a beautiful bed-side cabinet for Mrs ED. She had been complaining that all her Brick-layers’ Guild magazines and her erotic novels were always in a messy pile next to her bed….

Actually, that’s a fib.

I had been complaining that all her Brick-layers’ Guild magazines and erotic novels were always in a messy pile next to her bed, and she had pointed out that there was simply nowhere to put them.
“I need a bedside cabinet” she had said.

Well, on the morning of Valentine’s Day I led her to the garage and pulled off the sheet covering my creation.
“Ta daaaaa!” I sang.

She was speechless…. For an embarrassingly long moment.

“Ta daaaaaaaaaa!” I said again, figuring she may not have heard the first time.

Still no sound. Admittedly, looking at it through her eyes, I suppose it wasn’t immediately obvious what it was.
“You’ve... painted our old washing machine…” she muttered, in more of a matter-o’-fact tone than an ‘I’m forever grateful’ gush.
“Yes! er... No!” I cried. “It WAS our old washing machine…. Now it’s your NEW BOOK CABINET…. For next to your bed…. It’s what you always wanted….for your eroti.. er… romantic books… and your magazines….?” I showed her how cleverly I had split the inside cylinder into two by wedging an old fridge shelf in.

“The top is for magazines, and the bottom for books." I explained, “You’ll have to be careful because it still turns a bit if its unbalanced…”

“Next to my bed?” she asked….. was she even listening to me?

“Look,” I said, hoping that a bit of romantic flair would save the moment. It really wasn’t going as I’d planned. “I’ve painted it red for Valentine’s, and I’ve written something special on the side…”
“That’s brown, not red. Actually it’s the left over creosote from when I did the fence,” she stated, as blandly as if she was at a Bland Union's press conference, “And that’s not how you spell my name.”

Huh! Anyone would have thought that she was the best valentine buyer in the world. Well she isn’t.

If I remember rightly, that was the same year she got me the mushroom book. Loving mushrooms as much as I do, at first I thought she had scored a real winner – the book was a big, hard-back affair, with colour photographs and all. It looked new but I soon realized it must have been second hand because of the mistake. You see, whilst the outer dust jacket of the book (which for some reason had been glued on to the hard cover) bore the title ‘Edible Mushrooms of the Knysna Forest’ , reading the small print inside on one of the first pages, I realized it was actually called ‘Eden’s Most Poisonous Fungi’.

I still haven’t told Mrs Ed - it would break her heart to know that the book shop had made such a terrible error. In fact still to this day, every time I mention I might be anywhere near the forest she always reminds me to keep a look out for mushrooms.
“You might find some really delicious ones,” she says “So take that lovely reference book I got you…...

Empty nest? NOT!

If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, charge it rent and make sure it does its fair share of washing up.

What happened? I was supposed to be wallowing in that warm and fuzzy, sunshiny spot between 'Empty Nest Syndrome' and 'My goodness, look at all this extra space!'.

Alas, this is not the case. I don't think I am EVER going to get there….

You see, this January saw the departure of my dear daughter 'Fear Factor'* to the Mother City (*yes she is STILL learning to drive, despite the efforts of the traffic department to have her declared 'Steeringly Challenged' … come to think of it, I reckon they may have made that up I can't find it in any of Mrs Ed's medical encyclopaedias).

I won't go into detail about the move, other than it involving an impressive convoy of trailers and bakkies packed so high that the lifting of power lines was necessary.... and our arrival at the quaint little flatlet instantly causing the collapse of one poor landlord. Poor, poor man.

But the deed is done and Fear Factor is now firmly ensconced in a small unsuspecting suburb called Parow. We await reports as to how quickly the drivers and pedestrians residing in that area manage to initiate a class action restraining order against her.

So. You would have thought that this move would mean a little extra room in the T'ED household, wouldn't you? Any logically thinking person with more common sense than a taxidermist's squirrel can do the maths:-
Family of four, minus one child (2012) = Family of three.
Family of three, minus one child (2015) = Family of two = Just me and Mrs Ed = a lot of empty rooms and cupboards and spare towels.

And I have to shamefully admit, it wasn't four minutes after the last tearful promise to keep Fear Factor's room exactly as she left it (which, if you think about it would be like leaving London exactly as it was just after the Blitz) that I started mentally planning the installation of the two-storey micro brewery - which would undoubtedly save us a huge amount of money over the years, and, once we had sold it to SAB, would probably make me infinitely wealthy.

But that was just my idea, and I knew it wouldn't be plain sailing. Mrs Ed had her heart set on the ridiculous notion of opening a B&B.
“Think of the people we'll meet,” she had mused, “It will be such a nice way of making new friends from all over the world.”

Now call me anything you like, but I'm no idiot. The thought of anyone paying good money to stay amidst the chaos of our home, actually socialize with (and look at) the 7am version of Mrs Ed (when her temper AND teeth are at their sharpest), then sit at a breakfast table and eat food prepared by her calloused, oil-stained hands…. Well it just went against any smidgeon of logic I had.

But I needn't have worried.

Because then the unexpected happened....
'The REE' came back.

You might call it The REE-TURN.

Just in case you have forgotten, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) is our son, who we packed off to study in Cape Town in 2012. At the time I had thought, perhaps foolishly, that that was it. Once qualified the lad would land a high-paying job, move into a large apartment in Constantia, and invite Mrs Ed and me down to spoil us for weeks at a time.

I had even rehearsed my acceptance speech for the brand new 750cc Honda Africa Twin he would no doubt be buying me 'Just as a thank you for everything you and mom have done'….

Apparently not. He's home.

It was quite unnerving actually. Firstly Mrs Ed insisted I change all the family photos back (I had pasted cut out pictures of a better looking young man - WITHOUT tattoos, stretcher earrings and a pierced tongue - over The REE’s photographs. Nothing sinister about this action of course, it just made conversations with visitors that much more relaxed). And then, because I hadn't had to use the combination lock on the fridge for so long, I only realized I had forgotten the code once I'd locked it.

I got myself into a huge panic and was about to see if I could break through the back of the fridge with a four pound hammer and chisel, when The REE came home, opened the padlock and started tucking into everything he could lay his hands on. Apparently the young whippersnapper had cracked the combination years ago! No wonder my amber nectar had started tasting a little watery.

“Is it legal? Can they actually do that? You know… just move back in?” I asked my father in law later, as I took the last Windhoek from his fridge. We had just popped round to borrow some of his power tools and return the ones I'd broken, and Mrs Ed was busy packing some of the meat from their deepfreeze into her basket (they always had SO much!) whilst her mom was hanging up the last few loads of our washing (she does get the whites that much whiter).
“I mean, surely,” I mused, popping a nice wedge of Gorgonzola into my mouth, and chewing it thoughtfully, (my in-laws did have a great taste in cheese) “Surely there should be some sort of law protecting parents from that sort of thing? Otherwise it could carry on forever?”

The wise old man just stared at me. It was such a strange, deep stare, if I hadn't known better I would have sworn he had actually WANTED the half lasagna I had found on the second shelf half an hour earlier. Admittedly it had tasted very, VERY good - even cold.

He grabbed my arm, quite tightly for a man of his years, actually. “The best thing you can do,” he whispered hoarsely (he's always been a hoarsey person),
“The best thing you can do ….” Now he was pulling me in closer, digging his fingers so deep into my flesh I almost dropped the bowl of fruit-salad
“…is EMIGRATE!”

Putting his lips to my ears he continued, and if the truth be told I thought I detected a hint of desperation in his voice…..
“...somewhere far, far away, like Australia… or Peru…. and…. ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?” he glanced over to where Mrs Ed's mother was busy ironing one of my shirts, then turned back to me, and positively hissed.
“Make sure you do EVERYTHING YOU CAN to stop your wife telling them where you are! YOU UNDERSTAND? This is most important. You have to convince her that it's A SECRET!”

I mulled over this as I dolloped four generous scoops of icecream into my bowl...
“You know what dad? I think you’re right,” I mused, finishing the last bit of chocolate sauce, “In fact I might even go so far as to say..
I’d be mad if I didn’t!”