Life is good when you are the youngest child

Lori Clinch

Are We There Yet?

Although I love my youngest sister dearly, growing up with her was as irritating as finding a sibling sitting on your bed, wearing your favorite shirt and eating your candy stash.

Misti was the bane of my existence. She was into my stuff, crowding my space and inserting "I'm going to tell Mom!" into every situation regardless of whether or not I had done anything that was worthy of telling Mom.

That kid scribbled on my homework, used my makeup and for reasons we may never understand, she'd oftentimes lick her middle finger and then stick it in my ear.

As a loving sister and all-around good person, I'd put up with Misti for as long as I could. I'd ignore her antics, pretend she didn't exist, threaten to cut her life short and then I'd knock her into tomorrow.

It was a tough job, but a sibling has to do what a sibling has to do.

Misti would then react, as the youngest siblings are programmed to react, by crying. And not just any form of crying you understand, but a full blown, deep down, from the tips of her toes squeal that could be heard for miles around. Sometimes she'd start the squall up then and there, other times she'd just get a sob going that sounded like a motor idling and then she'd hit it full bore when she saw Mom.

"What happened, darling?" Mom would often ask as she played right into Misti's hands.

"L-l-l-lori h-h-hit mmmmmmeeeee!"

There was no jury to hear my case. There was no lawyer to defend me, just this one "victim" who was working the system before a judge who was clearly on her side. The matter was tried without so much as a word from the defense, and I was usually sentenced to a punishment that far exceeded the crime.

And she started it!

"I'll never do this to my kids!" I'd often say as I stomped away. "I'll never let my kids torture their older siblings and then punish the older siblings for doing what I should be doing by making them mind. No sir-ee, no kids of mine shall suffer at the hands of a younger sibling!"

I've been pretty good at improving on my mother's parenting too. I've often listened to the kids' "cases" with great consternation. I've heard their arguments, studied both sides and with the wisdom of Solomon I've questioned the throng to determine the cause and action.

"What did you do?" I've often started. "OK, what did he do and so what happened then." I've taken on the causes, handled them with justice and when the timing was right, I told the kids to replay the down.

I've handled "He punched me!" "He looked at me!" and the ever-loving proclamation of love, "He's a moron!" Verbal zingers have filled the air and throughout it all I've considered myself to be the most fair judge and jury in the district.

Then the youngest child developed a scream. Not just any scream, mind you, but one of those screams that can awaken the dead.

Now any mother worth her salt knows that any child who screams like that is a child who is distressed. And what mother wouldn't run to the aid of a child who is suffering, especially at the hands of an older brother?

"But Charlie started it!" my older children often protest. "Charlie did this!" and "Charlie did that!" "He took my stuff!" "He walked into my room!" and, heaven forbid, "Charlie changed my channel!"

And my little Charlie is nothing if not innocent and precious. His wit is never ending and his smile can light up an arena. It broke my heart to imagine the torment he must feel at the hands of his older brothers.

As if that weren't enough, they even picked on the little dear in church. I noticed them pinching him, bothering him and making the little guy squirm. I gave the older children nudges, snapped my fingers when needed, and threw them the look that said, "Don't make me take you out!" I just couldn't imagine why they wouldn't leave my precious and youngest child alone.

When the service had ended, I turned to the women who were sitting behind me and apologized for the behavior of the children.

"It's no problem," the woman replied. "But we couldn't help but notice that you sure have your hands full with that little one."

See if I ever second-guess my mother's parenting again.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.