The Rumpus: Part 2

It isn't a Somerville get-together until somebody cries. This time, it was me.

Find Part 1 here.

The whole week, I kept thinking about how it doesn't matter how old you are, how married you are, or what your job is; whether you have kids and reading glasses and a retirement plan. When you are around your siblings, you automatically regress to feeling about ten years old.

This effect is magnified in a large family, I think, because there are just that many more people to think of you like a kid —all of that time they spent with you before you became a teenager and got your own friends, before you left home and started slowly building your life as an adult. Without them.

I think most people probably know me as a fairly mild, easygoing individual, but when I am around my siblings, I often become the Oldest Girl again. The Eldest Daughter. I can be opinionated and obnoxious, bossing everyone around like it’s my job because it was my job, for many, many years.

It was my job to help take care of my four younger sisters and help keep track of them; help change diapers and babysit and put them to bed. I was tasked with setting a good example, making them behave themselves, and if shit ever hit the fan, I bore the brunt of the punishment because I was old enough to know better.

All of that conditioning doesn't just disappear. It simply lies dormant for decades until it’s awakened during a family Christmas, or on the tranquil shores of Lake Cowichan.