What it's Like

Author's Note: We grew up. It's not like this anymore, but I'll never forget the time we had together as children. I'll never forget the joy of being a part of this family. 

"What's it like having that many siblings?"

Hmm... what's it like...? Let me see...

"Line-up! Line-up time!" My dad calls, his voice booming throughout the small, 1500 square-foot, four-bedroom house we moved into when I was nine. We used to have a door to the basement. It's gone now, and the stairwell echoes, the walls vibrating enough to send the twelve small humans crawling from the floorboards like mice. They rush up the stairs from their bedrooms, two of which were turned into the barracks from the family room and office they used to be. Then the children line up in the living room in birth order. This is difficult due to the tight living room space, half the size it used to be since the dining room was too small for our table and was relocated.

"Who started their chores?"

The question wasn't ever rhetorical, but silence always followed.

"You have an hour before dinner. Get em' done."

The stampede ensues. Bathroom cleaners make the house smell like bleach. Three kids throw dish suds around the cramped kitchen in a make-shift snowball fight while our mom cooks dinner. Two fight over who gets to use the vacuum cleaner first. A baby starts crying because a toddler stole the toy she was playing with in an effort to put the toys away. Music blares from the piano as the oldest decides that practicing is her chore. In actuality, her chore is to do laundry, but, it's always a waiting game when the cycle only just started. Laughter, cries, conversations over top of other conversations, the piano-they all add to the chaos.

Dinner is over. Chores are mostly done. Line-up time has begun once again, and the pounding piano keys are finally silent.

"I'll say the verse, and you'll repeat it. Got it?"

We all turn into bobble-heads. Some groans escape, but it can't be helped; it's been weeks since we began working on this chapter and we're only to Verse 11.

"'Speak not evil one of another, brethren. He that speaketh evil of his brother, and judgeth his brother, speaketh evil of the law and judgeth the law: but if thou judge the law, thou art not a doer of the law, but a judge.' Repeat."

"Speak not evil one of another..." We drone on. The verse is repeated at least fifteen times.

In the summer, we stay outdoors. An empty barrel is our hurdle, the sandbox wall is the tightrope, the unused tomato planters are poles. Within minutes, we have a stopwatch, a referee, and a scoreboard. This obstacle course is only one of the many backyard games we plan. Outside of courses, we turn the picnic table into a pirate ship with garbage bag sail and all, or we use water guns to execute a felon. We set up treasure hunts and build fortresses-heaven knows why our parents allow us to use hammers and nails and rotting plywood to create two-story forts and rickety ladders over the backyard fence. We even get the neighbor kids involved and have full teams for kickball. With twelve-plus children laughing and screaming, it is always a party, and the neighbors two blocks down complain.

I never want my own room. My sisters do. They complain that my nightlight keeps them up. They don't like Chris' snoring and sleep-talk. They don't like my midnight dreams of tornados or world wars that make me crawl down from the top bunk to sleep next to them. There are four in this room, four in the next, four in the last, and my parents upstairs with the only other room shifting from an office to a toy room to a school room depending on my parents' wishes. We older girls were lucky to get the old family room with more space as our bedroom. Still, bunkbeds are a necessity.

People at Walmart think I'm a mother. Mom splits us up, a stroller or cart to each with our own shopping list. I get the baby and two toddlers. Suzi gets the middle kids in the awkward stage between toddler and child, and Chris gets to browse the electronics while her crew of old-enough kids run wildly throughout the toy isle.

A toddler crawls under the cart after I yell at him to stay by me. I'm only twelve, and I feel like this kid is turning my hair gray. The baby is laughing at him from her car-seat in the front.

A middle-aged woman smiles at me, tugging at her husband's arm. "What a cute family! You look so young too!"

I shrug. The third person today needs a sarcastic remark, but what do I say? They grow up so fast? Nah... too weird. Yup, expecting my fourth in May! Definitely not. Child bride? Now, I'm getting too dark... Shoot. The moment's gone.

"I'm twelve."

The woman's eyes darken. "Oh, okay." She walks away, towing her husband quickly.

I wonder how she took it...

I roll my eyes, looking for the party-sized can of tuna that is never located with the actual tuna, and I push the cart forward absently, forgetting about the woman. I then hear a scream.

"What now?"

His finger was in the wheel. Oh god...The bathroom is across the store, and the Saturday-morning shoppers are everywhere. He's definitely going to lose his nail, and it's my fault. It doesn't help that he's screaming like I chopped off his arm. How am I going to tell Mom?

I take my version of the walk of shame-not the one you know. This one is worse. Three kids heading with me toward the bathroom, one now in the basket of the cart, one in the front, and one walking beside me with my hand pinching his finger and holding it above his head so blood keeps from dripping everywhere. He's still screaming, and people are staring. Is this what being a mom is? Will I ever have to do this again? I don't think I ever want kids.

No one offers to help. The woman from moments ago sees us and smirks.

With his finger cleaned and bandaged and Mom taking him to watch his antics, I'm back in the tuna aisle. The baby is transferred to a stroller and the other toddler is quiet. Relief is the only thing I've found in this forsaken aisle, but I still can't find the right tuna can.

"What a sweetie!" Another woman who obviously doesn't understand the demonic power of small children is cooing over the baby. "How old is she?"

"Four months September 13th." My reply is thrown to the wind as I keep my eyes on the shelves rather than the young woman.

"How darling!"

As if she sensed my disgust in that moment, the baby starts wailing.

The woman recoils, backing away. "Oh, so loud too." Her goo-goo eyes turn to stone and I'm left alone in the aisle once again.

"Keep crying and maybe I'll find what I'm looking for without interruption."

The crying continues a little too long, and I'm getting more looks from passing customers. No matter how loud the baby is, I can hear every word from them all.

"Shut it up, will ya."

"Give the kid what it wants."

"There's always that one child."

Some are more direct.

"I think you need to change it. It smells like it."

"Does she need food? Did you bring some?"

You know, sometimes children are just cranky and don't want to sit in a stroller for hours, but the shopping must be done even if a baby is screaming.

Road trips to grandma's involve packing the fifteen-passenger van. I'm the only one small enough with half a brain for organization, so it's my job. Everyone lugs their tightly packed duffle-bags to the driveway, and I crawl from seat to seat, stuffing bags underneath them and in crevices to keep the seats open enough for bodies. The packing takes a little over an hour. In the summer, it's so hot that when I finally emerge, my hair is soaked, my face beet-red, and my chest heaving. In the winter, it's so cold that my fingers are numb, and my lips are blue.

Then, I go back inside to figure out seating arrangements. If this kid sits next to this one, the trip will be a literal horror. If this kid doesn't sit next to this toddler, the toddler will never get their lunch that's passed out while on the road. If I don't give this child her favorite seat, she'll sulk the whole way, and it'll be my fault. This kid endlessly teases the babies, inevitably making them cry. He can NOT be next to any car-seats.

My list is finished, and I got to bed. The next morning...

"I don't want to sit there!"

"No, he'll steal my stuff and hurt me, and, and I'm not going!"

"Why did you put him behind the driver? He'll kick Dad the whole way."

An hour passes and the road is finally beneath us. Another fourteen hours and the fourteen of us will finally be at Grandma's.

You know, this list could go on. I could fill a book. But, to answer your question...

To be honest, it's not like anything you've ever known, and I could never describe it enough to you. Every family is different. Every family has their quirks and unique ways of living.

It may seem foreign to you, but, to me, this is normal. You have your normal. I have mine. So, maybe we should just leave it at that. 

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