The Joy of Family

I don't think people who have never had a sibling (or five siblings, as in my case, ranging in age from lower 30s to 13) quite understand the joy of family. When I was sixteen some people (complete strangers) thought I was my little sister's mother and this continued until she was around two years old. She was very energetic and after my work week was over on Friday morning, she would accompany to the mall, making quick little steps with her small legs, and later we would play at the park for awhile, but never long enough to suit her... I sometimes just had to walk away to get her to follow.

My next youngest sister used to go with me to Biway and get little outfits; she claims this has made her materialistic, but I just don't see it. Even at five, I was trying to be a mother to my next youngest sister.

But the fact is I have four sisters, and one much persecuted brother and they are of different generations. I love all of them and they are all so unique. My youngest sister is athletic, among other talents, then the next youngest is very scholastic and highly intelligent, but also artistic and creative... let's face it she's at the top of the gene pool... And then my other sister is so giving, and caring, with an eye for design and fashion and talent in scrap-booking and the much coveted ability to help in the background without drawing attention to herself, in addition to the possession of an excellent work ethic and organizational skills she must have inherited from my father.

And my oldest sister is a wonderful mother of two and wife of almost ten years, with many abilities in business, arts and crafts such as sewing, quilting, and cross-stitch, cuisine, and baking the best raisin bread I have ever had in my life. She even has her own blogbook that she poured hours of work into, and her own cookbook that she did as a fourth year student.

And of course my brother is also incredibly fantastic to have survived having so many sisters... I could probably write a book about him if he ever were to get famous. We used to tease him, call him "The Boy" and call him "Cow Eyes", but the epithet that made him most angry was when we named him Johnny Applesauce... Boy we were mean. It wasn't his fault he shortened us to "the girls" after calling us Kan and Zan as a toddler. I still remember the day he called an elevator "an alligator". I must have inherited my Opa's ability to remember seemingly insignificant details...

photo credit M. den Boer with apologies to C.