Being the Baby

Writers write about what they know a lot of the time. Sometimes this garners them a published piece; sometimes not. I write for simple enjoyment and also because it teaches my brain to think simultaneously in the past and present. I seldom think too far into the future as it interferes with my enjoyment of today.


What I know (and I have it on good authority) is what being the ‘baby’ in a family is like. Well at least what being a baby in MY family is like. This does not necessarily transcend to all families, as dynamics and (dys) functions differ from family to family.


My Father always introduced me to his friends and other family members as ‘the baby.’ Now when you are young, this type of introduction is not a good thing. For whatever reason, young people never want to be referred to as ‘young,’ quite a phenomenon in itself. So for years I had to endure this term of endearment from my Father. Now that I am ‘grown up’, it would be wonderful to hear it again as it would be a kind reminder of my youth.


The baby of the family is typically ‘spoiled.’ That term is loosely defined in the family unit. What exactly does it mean? Is being spoiled the same as cooking something too long, thereby ‘spoiling’ the sauce? I turn to my youngest, my baby, from time to time to garner his thoughts on this subject. He loves being the baby. He rekindled in me the joys of being the baby. He loves the idea that his status will never change (now) similar to my oldest who always lamented that her status would always be the same…no matter what.


The baby of the family never really gets past their status. A little bizarre and frustrating at the same time. It might not have anything to do with being the baby. Might it simply be because the older siblings left home while I was still in elementary school? This translates into their memory of me being the clearest in pre-puberty. Living in another province for a couple of decades didn’t help either. Time flies. Returning home with my husband and two children did not necessarily translate that I had ‘grown up.’ I am speculating of course.

Back to being the baby. I was a quiet child. Quiet because it was difficult to get ‘airtime’ in a family of five with the majority being girls. It was easier to keep my thoughts to myself. An older sibling used to (somewhat) affectionately refer to me as living in ‘a world of my own.’ What exactly does that mean? Being an observer however has its advantages. I learned from the others how NOT to get into trouble. I learned by watching and observing for example, the best times to approach my Mother or Father for favors. I got quite good at it. My horoscope sign is Cancer. That in itself explains a lot. 

Being the baby has a cache of upsides and downsides. The upside for me as the baby meant that the ‘hard’ chores like scrubbing and waxing the floors was relegated to the older siblings. My Mother would say I was ‘too little’, a fact that I was reminded of a lot. A skinny child (skin and bones another sister’s description of me); I was given the ‘soft chores’ like making beds and dusting. To this day I detest dusting. Anyone who had the honor of dusting my brother’s dressers would completely understand. I would find everything there, and I mean everything, and I had to prepare for my brother’s wrath if I should move it or worse still, pitch it out! But compared to being down on hands and knees and scrubbing a large farm kitchen, I took to my dusting duties with relish and would spend the greater part of a Saturday morning completing them.

One of the downsides of being the baby was the proverbial hand-me-downs. Now for some kids this might be a fun thing, wearing the softly used clothing of a sibling or a cousin. For me, it was a horror. Since I was the ‘smallest’ and this was long before the time of size ‘0’ clothing, most hand-me–downs were two to three sizes too big. Bless my Mother! She would always say the outfits looked lovely. And at times she was able to ‘alter’ them to fit in the best way she could. But most of the time, I wore them ‘as is.’ I can actually remember my first ‘new’ winter coat. I was in first year high school at the tender age of thirteen. I had a babysitting job on our road and I had squirreled away my portion of the ‘family allowance’ from the government. Off to the nearest city and the ‘Holman’ shopping centre I went. I couldn’t contain myself I was so excited. It was late November and I had started out the season with a coat that had been passed around quite a bit and had seen better days. My oldest sister was with me, to help me choose. Shopping was a foreign experience for me then (has since changed), so the decision to send along a shopping chaperone was a good one. Browsing the racks of coats I started to get discouraged. My ‘dream’ coat was a faux fur, with a hood, navy blue in color. No such coat existed in the store. Hoods were just coming in style and waiting for a school bus at the end of a long lane in the winter demanded hear gear, and hoods were considered trendy and cool! Moments before I had given up on finding my ‘dream’ coat, I noticed a coat sleeve; on a top rack of coats; higher than I could reach; and my pulse quickened. It was a faux fur and navy blue. My tallest sister reached up and brought it down and I am sure she was happy that I found something to my liking. It didn’t have a hood, but a silver grey faux fur collar. I had to ‘settle’ as this was the closest I was ever going to get to my ‘dream’ coat. The next hurdle was the price. I had ‘x’ amount of dollars in my pocket and I was so afraid I wouldn’t be able to afford it, I was actually in a sweat. To my delight, and astonishment there was a ‘sale’ tag attached to the sleeve! It was less than the cash amount I had budgeted and I could not believe my good fortune. My sister was smiling as she helped me ‘try it on’, and like a miracle, it fit perfect. I hugged myself in this wonderful soft silky faux fur coat. I didn’t want to take it off. My first coat…all for me…and the best part was it wouldn’t fit anyone else so I wouldn’t have to share. Needless to say I felt like a queen going to school the next day sporting that new coat. It was to be short lived though as my Mother, always the frugal one, convinced me I should save it for ‘good’ aka going to church. Knowing it would soon lose its ‘newness’ and shiny good looks if it was worn climbing aboard a school bus every day, I went along with the idea. But shortly after Christmas when my ‘dream coat’ with the sparkly Christmas corsage adorning the collar became the warmest coat I owned, I was allowed to wear it every day (the fear of  outgrowing it might have been a mitigating factor). My first new coat is a fond memory and obviously a divining moment in my life when I can relive it so easily and vividly.


Being the baby and the 7th member of our family, I guess you could say I was the ‘odd man out’. Place settings at the table meant I had to share an end position…alongside my older brother. This was okay as I was also in a ‘high chair’ for more years than I care to remember. Was it because we didn’t have enough chairs or was I ‘too small’ to sit on a chair and actually see over the table? I really don’t remember. I was a picky eater so for me it mattered less where I sat or what I sat on. I do remember though having to stand on a chair to bake, my greatest passion. I toiled so hard beating the batter of the chocolate cakes, I was always just a little freaked out that the cake(s) would get eaten so quickly. Not much wonder my Mother welcomed the help in the kitchen. A never ending task it was …baking, preparing, and serving food to the family.

Being the baby allowed me to spend a lot of one-on-one time with my Mother. While the older kids were in school, my Mom would sit with me during some of her infrequent breaks from the kitchen and teach me the alphabet and numbers. By the time I was ready for grade one (no kindergarten in those days), I could recognize, recite, and print the alphabet and count to Gods knows how high. I could print my name and like a sponge I couldn’t wait to get to school to learn more. It would drive my Mom crazy to see me standing at the window waiting for the older kids to get home from school. When I was finally ready for grade one, I pranced off to school (walking) with my nearest sibling and to this day I can still smell the scent of the new books. I am still a bookstore junkie. I can spend hours in there, roaming the aisles, and opening the odd book, just to get that scent.


Being the baby and the youngest of four girls also meant by the time I reached my teens, my parents were softening a lot. They did well to keep up with the times. Although they never gave me the impression they didn’t want me to grow up, I can still see my Father’s face the first time I asked to go to the ‘teen’ dance at the rink. I had accepted the fact I wouldn’t be able to go to the dances until the age my sisters were allowed and it definitely wasn’t at the age of 13. My Father didn’t consent right off, but sat on the edge of his bed looking down at the floor. Slowly shaking his head from side to side, his reply was “what does your Mother say”? Overjoyed, I knew it was a ‘done ‘deal, because my Mom had sent me upstairs to ask my Father. So they were clearly depending on the other to make this decision. Going to the dance with my sister made the decision easier, and off I went to find out just what went on at the ‘dances’. From that point on, the ‘asks’ ranged from ‘can I borrow the car’ to ‘can I go out on a date’. I guess my parents had grown a bit weary, and it was easier to give in to my requests. Whatever the reason, I do not remember many occasions where a refusal was issued. A few years later when I had finished college and presented the idea of moving to Toronto (at age 18), I was in awe when my parents consented. They were amazing. Along with giving me the freedom to make my own choices, they were also confident enough to allow me to make my own mistakes as well. For that I will always be grateful.


The night my new fiancé (my husband now of 38 years) and I presented my diamond ring to my Mother and Father, I can only imagine what was going through their minds. My Mother said very little, but she held my hand in hers and bent over and kissed my diamond ring. No words needed to be spoken. My Father was sitting in his rocking chair in the corner of the kitchen with his forearms resting on his knees. Looking up at my fiancé his only words were slow and measured. “Always remember,” he said, “you can never love a woman too much.”


From time to time my husband chides me about being the baby and hence being ‘spoiled’. He playfully tells anyone who will listen that he had to pick up ‘where my Father left off’…maybe he is right.