I am number seven. Thanks to my dad, I am also lucky.<\/p>\n\n
I am number seven. The position had privileges other siblings did not get. First, I was ignored by just about everybody. Second, from age five on, I was old enough to know better while my baby brother, just one year younger, was\u2026 well, a baby. Third, my parents expected me to know my place and to stay in it. Most often I did. Finally, life enshrouded me with a cloak of get-away-with-it-ness<\/em>. I got away with a lot. Although being number seven had its benefits, I wished to be number eight.<\/p>\n My younger brother, little number eight, was the last of the brood. He held a special place in my father\u2019s mind. He was perpetually blameless, cute and the baby. He was also no good. Everyone knew it except my dad. Both my parents allotted me the special position of baby girl. It was not so special that my dad wouldn\u2019t swat the last cookie out of my hand, retrieve it and give it to the baby. Don\u2019t get me wrong. Number seven was a cool position because I could do things like, dump my oatmeal into the trash without anyone noticing me. Sundays, the super-invisible-day had its advantages. No school, no church and we could sleep-in if we wanted. Many Sundays, finding a good spot, or in my bed under the window, I would read all day long. No one bothered me. They didn\u2019t seem to miss me and that was fine by me.<\/p>\n No denying it, in some ways, I liked this element of invisibility. But it came with a price. Most noteworthy, my individual essence got watered down by my older siblings and snuffed out by the baby. They forced me to survive. I had to make myself heard when it was important. I did this usually by crying, shouting or screaming. Sometimes, these were the only useful tools in my arsenal. Fortunately, my dad was a mom-man. He always heard and responded to me.<\/p>\n That doesn\u2019t mean I always liked the way he responded. Most of the time I didn\u2019t. Nevertheless, for a sixties-seventies Dad my father was exceptional. He did more than society expected of him. He cooked, cleaned, washed dishes, swept, mopped and even combed my hair. My father gave us everything we needed. What we needed was up to him and he let us know it. End of story. Well, not truly the end because when it came to the baby, things were a little different. Either way, Dad job done.<\/p>\n These dad stories are so monumental to be because I was an emotional hand full. While my position as number seven may not have caused my highly emotional personality, I\u2019m going to blame my volatile moods on it anyway. At least that\u2019s the story as I experienced it. My close association with tears, upsettedness and other childish things meant, my dad had to spend a lot of time talking to me about me. He was good at it. He was also gentle, thoughtful and honest. In his way, my dad helped me to become a strong, independent, non-invisible person.<\/p>\n As a preteen, I began using rage as a way to get everyone to back off. My dad broke me of that habit. He told me, \u201cThink about what you do, before you do it. Not after.\u201d For a smart kid, I was a bit dull witted in that childlike way. I often asked, \u201cHow can I think about it before I do it? I didn\u2019t do it yet.\u201d My dad would look beat down and then he would explain that there was a moment before I acted that I could think and not act. \u201cWho is in charge of your hands?\u201d he would ask. \u201cWho is in charge of your tongue? Your thoughts?\u201d He asked these questions so often that I could not give a count of how often. There was always one answer. \u201cI am.\u201d<\/p>\n I dedicate these stories to my Dad. When he took time with me, he gave me his full attention. Until I leave this earth, I will cherish our father-daughter relationship. It was an amazing thing to be in his company and to feel his love. He was a great dad because he was tireless, attentive, and effective. I won\u2019t lie, sometimes he was harsh, stern and just plain wrong. Either way, he turned little number seven into number one. I love and miss him.<\/p> <\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n