The Burden of the baby

Stations within a family tell on-lookers so much about a person. The eldest child is generally methodical, logical and reliable. The middle child is usually more reserved but undoubtedly a problem solver and peace keeper. The baby is more often than not the wild child. The emotionally driven and fun-minded offspring. I say this with full understanding that I am and always will be the baby. I understood from an early age that whenever jobs were divvied across the house, my most favorite was that of court jester, the talent, the entertainment. I still find myself in some variation of this role even now as a wife, mother, business owner and more. I tend to be the one planning events. hosting events, setting up memory-making experiences, the quick joke, the emotional center of whatever is happening. I don’t say this to brag. I present this job description as a beloved burden. In times of joy, it is the absolute best. Christmas festivities, birthday parties, special events… YES I am here for them all!!

But I would also like to bring your attention to the yang of this yin. The counterbalance of this position. As the youngest of the family, I did not get to hold all the babies at an early age. I didn’t have the joy (and frustration) of watching my parents figure out this parenting thing. I am the third in line and by the time they made it through my brothers, admittedly, my mother was very tired. While excited to have a baby girl, her energy reserves were understandably depleted. For my grandparents, I was number seven. They were not exactly old, nor were they considered young by any stretch. So I heard things like “here baby, let’s let Nana sit down.” or “Papa just needs a quick cat nap before we head out.” I am not complaining, I didn’t know any different. This was the only childhood I had ever known so I didn’t know there were others ways to experience life. I had a beautiful childhood full of love and doting. I laughed often and sang with abandon every chance I got, much to my brothers dismay.

But I sit before my computer tonight, at 36 years old. My husband and I took a wee bit more time to get married and start a family than the average southern conservative. My oldest is seven, the baby is two. In a few months we will celebrate our ten year anniversary.

I can hear your thoughts…”what the crap. the title of this is ‘the burden of the baby,’ what is she complaining about? everything sounds really good.” You aren’t wrong. It does sound good. As the jolly go lightly caboose, I almost always look for the good in life. But sometimes I have to really work for it.

As my family stands today, my paternal grandparents both died before I was born. I have never seen their home because they lived in Michigan and I in Florida. My maternal grandparents are both gone now and while I enjoyed three decades of beautiful memories with them, my Nana had a hard time sitting through my wedding in a frail state. My Grandfather walked me down the aisle which is one of my fondest memories of the man we called “the sunshine man.” But I have never told anyone how heavily he leaned on me to make it through that walk. I dare not sully his good name by suggesting it was more like I walked him. He was, after all, in his late 80s at that point. This was a huge honor to him (he told me through tears) and a major blessing to me, as my father didn’t make it to 60. He lost a fight with cancer when I was 24. The silver lining I cling to here, my father knew and loved the man who would become my husband and readily gave his blessing, tho it would be another couple of years before that vow came to fruition.

This is the burden of the Baby. We often hear that death is part of life. Everyone comes to this end, some early, some late, some suddenly, some in peaceful drift. But as the baby, the shroud of mourning doesn’t hang in the back of the closet, it hangs next to your rain coat, ready to be called on at any moment. Funerals become common. Where once I saw my family as a full and robust village, I now see the wagons that circled my life now are dwindling. It is hard to prepare a young person for this. Most people don’t recognize it because they either come from a small village to begin with, or they are older and don’t realize the difference. But I feel it is important to relay this information because this is how you create a memory keeper.

Tonight, I celebrated the life of my husband’s paternal grandfather who passed away just one week short of 95 years old. My father-in-law, son of the deceased, asked if it was appropriate to take pictures of the grandkids at such an event. He laughed as he asked, almost like he was embarrassed. It was then that I realized, he wasn’t the baby, he didn’t know the burden my children would bear. As serious as I could muster and meeting his eyes squarely, “Whenever grandkids are concerned, you take the picture, regardless of the event. These pictures may not be true memories, but will become the foundation of who they are and who are their people.” We will shore up their lives with the pictures and stories and information that will become secondary memories, memories by proxy. This is important. “…Dad, someday, many days from now, my kids will stand before their families telling stories of their G-Pa who always made them laugh. Who always encouraged their education. Who always came to their soccer games. Who helped them catch their first fish and taste their first oyster. Who happily carried them on his shoulders, even when they were clearly too big for it. It will be these pictures that bring them comfort and tears. These stories we told of that day you stood before your family and spoke of your father, a man of faith and service. So always, ALWAYS take the picture.”

This is the burden of the baby, the secondary memory keeper. We are usually good story tellers because that is how we have been introduced to our people, through stories. I will never know my paternal grandmother or grandfather, my children will never know my father, there is a strong chance my grandchild will not know my parents. But, I make this vow, my children will know the stories of their people. I will catalogue and protect each life, each tale, until I can pass them down to my children and their children. This is both the blessing and the burden of the baby.