I absolutely love it when I make a new acquaintance and find out he or she is from a family of nine children. Invariably, the first question I then ask is, “what number are you?” I suppose the blunt semantics of this question might seem odd to some, reducing one’s place in life to a number. I could ask instead, “where are you in the birth order?” However, I find the latter phraseology too complex and, in all honesty, when you have been raised with eight other siblings, you find out quickly how to simplify life; cut to the chase, just give me a number.
One can read volumes of research on siblings, their birth order and resulting personality traits. The studies and scrutiny of the anomaly of a family as large as mine could double the size of the Library of Congress, and then some. I would not begin to assume an ability to analyze my childhood experiences through the eyes of my brothers and sisters; they each have their own story to tell. A Bridge Between evidences my view as an eighth child; not the view of just any eighth child, perhaps not even a typical eighth child. This is my story, as only I know it.
My husband likes to refer to me as a typical eighth child. Since I am aware of having met less than a handful of eighth children face to face, and have known not a single other one on a familiar basis, I have no point of reference for such a designation. Take it as you wish.
Growing up as an eighth child is a bit like walking a tightrope, balancing a very large inverted pyramid – your family – upon your head. Held within that pyramid is everything that is familiar in your life. You move carefully across the high wire, hoping the pyramid does not collapse, that you will not lose your footing and see your world come crashing down around you. An eighth child wants, most of all, to maintain stability.
Even in a small southern New England town by the sea, where everyone knew everybody, and everything seemed to have its place, it was possible for a child to wonder where he or she fit in. As long as I was my parents’ baby girl, I knew where I belonged.
Mine was a small town life before there was a stark line of demarcation drawn between the have and the have-nots. No one drove fancy cars, none of our fathers wore power ties, and our mothers all wore aprons and not designer clothes. Family cars were mostly utilitarian, our fathers were blue collar and every household ordered from the same Sears and Roebuck catalogue.
Of course there were some families who had more money than others and many had more money than mine–but in summer we swam in the same ocean and in the winter skating on the pond was free to all. We all played outside until the streetlights came on, all ate hot dogs and beans on Saturday night and everyone marched in the Fourth of July parade.
My family was different mostly because of the sheer size of it. The population of our little town was dominated by Irish and Italian Catholics but no other household could match us child for child. To this day I question anyone who says they come from a large family. “How many children?” I ask. Anything less than six or seven isn’t even worth mentioning.
The loneliness of a young child can be hard to distinguish, an overlooked footnote in a teaming household. In a life filled with friends and activities, supportive parents and a trove of siblings, sports, games and activities of all kinds, a child can feel alone – even an eighth child.