I grew up with a lot of cousins. And there for several years I was the baby, which, loosely interpreted, translates to ‘tortured one’. Also excluded. Picked on. Left alone in the dark, in the hay bales. “Hide” they said. “We’ll come find you” they said. “Be quiet and still” they said. I walked back to my grandparents house. Alone. In the dark. I’m pretty sure I was crying. The best part about my mother finally having another baby was that I was no longer the baby.
I must say this, my cousin JoAnna, was always nice to me. Thank you JoAnna. Otherwise I may not have recovered as well as I have.
Now all of us, well almost all of us, have babies of our own. Who are no longer babies. Which makes most of us getting close to 40, except me of course. That whole ‘younger’ thing is working out better for me these days.
Two of the babies who are babies no more, taking corn shucks to throw over the fence. I’m glad there is no torturing going on here. At least for the moment.
I am happy to report that despite our rocky beginnings my cousins and I are all good friends now. I love them and I think they love me back.