The entire airport security line paused
their conversations to stare in shock at my family as we approached the
carry-on conveyor belt in a loose, trailing procession. Their whispers carried clearly
and I heard them counting and the disbelieving exclamation “They have seven kids!” repeated again and again in
the growing queue. I felt like a circus sideshow. Step right up and see the
family that is singlehandedly replenishing the earth! In all my fifteen
year-old glory, I rolled my eyes in annoyance. But my red face betrayed the embarrassment
bubbling up within.
My family was quite a sight to behold. Mary,
her shirt obviously backward, was at the front of the line fumbling with the
DVD player she needed to take out of her bag. Three-year old Joseph struggled
to wrestle his Buzz Light-year backpack unto the belt, his mouth, covered in
sticky white glaze from the breakfast donut, pursed in concentration. Hannah
took off her beat-up tennis shoes to reveal sockless feet and a keen, pungent
stench. Elijah removed his earphones for a brief moment as he strode through
the metal detector and then proceeded to sit obliviously on the benches on the
other side. John, with dark purple half moons under his eyes, loaded each of
his three feather-light carry-ons (later discovered to be filled with stuffed
animals) onto the black belt and shuffled zombie-like through the arch. Mom and
Dad grappled with cumbersome camera bags and Sariah’s diabetes medication. I
tried to maintain order amongst this line-choking melee; I lifted up bags, sorted
shoes and jackets onto the trays and herded my little siblings through to the
other side. I wanted to demonstrate that we were put together and high
functioning rather than an unorganized mess.
When Sariah walked through, the
detector began to emit shrieking beeps. My other siblings gathered around me, I
sunk into the cold, metal seat and hung my head in my hands. The sounds of Sariah’s
harsh sobs, intermixed with the stern voices of investigating TSA officers and
impatient murmurs of critical, childless travelers, composed a coarse cacophony
that scraped, raw, against my ears. They were no doubt formulating scathing
critiques of my parent’s parenting techniques and their perceived inability to
perfectly control their children. I was angry with these intolerant strangers.
And also, horribly, mortified that they might be right.
Two years
later, I woke up from my nap to my little sister pounding on my door. “Family
meeting!” she shouted through door and rapped, sharp and staccato, against the
wood until I groggily stumbled upstairs and sinking into the recliner in the
study. Soft light filtered through the blinds, lightening the dark wood
covering the bottom portion of the walls and composing the over-crowded
bookshelves. The frames of my parents’ many diplomas filled the available wall
space, leaving only slivers of wallpaper visible. Elijah reclined on the leather
couch, taking up most of the room and leaving Hannah and Mary to squeeze
together on the end. John and Joseph wrestled on the carpet, yelling at each
other. Mom and Dad sat side by side, holding hands.
“Now that
everyone’s here, we have an announcement to make,” my Dad began with a smile.
John and Joseph paused their fight, sitting up on the floor, and everyone else
quieted down somewhat in anticipation.
“You’re
pregnant,” I deadpanned, still ornery from being woken up and dragged to family
council.
My parents
exchanged a quick glance, “Actually, yes. You are going to have another sister,
she is going to join our family this January.” They beamed together, obviously
overjoyed as my brothers and sisters squealed in excitement.
I, on the
other hand, sat in shock. The revelation hit me like a blow. I was already so
different from everyone at my school. I was the only Mormon amongst the seven
hundred in my grade, amongst all my friends. Almost everyone I knew had only
one or two siblings. Was it not enough that every we went—every store, every restaurant,
every airport—heads turned and stared at us? Now I, at seventeen, would have a
baby sister, one more thing to separate me from everyone else. I envisioned
myself as standing on a ledge of ice that kept cracking, and this final blow
sent me floating alone into the freezing waters of social Siberia.
My parents were already overwhelmed
with their current brood. I often was enlisted to drive sisters to gymnastics,
brothers to basketball, help Sariah with homework, make John a sandwich, give
Joseph a bath, or perform many other acts caregiving. Now these responsibilities
would be multiplied and parental attention further stretched.
My mind racing, I jumped up and I
stormed out of the room, shouting that we already had enough kids and didn’t
need any more. It was completely selfish. But in that moment, I could only see
how this decision would inconvenience me.
Over the next few months, I gradually
repented of my initial rebellion and warmed to the idea. But I still retained a
grain of resentment. In The Book of
Mormon, the Prophet Jacob quotes the words of Isaiah, warning of the danger
of “put[ting] bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter” (2 Nephi 15:20). I so craved
normality, the individualized attention and care my friends in small families
received that it swallowed up the beauty, begging to be acknowledged, of new
life. My selfishness blinded me.
The day we
first visited my sister Lily, the hospital smelled sharply of antiseptic and
the florescent light washed out the greenish-blue walls and colorful, whimsical
artwork. My siblings raced each other down the hall, shoes squeaking on the
white, tan flecked linoleum. In the room, my Mom sat up in her hospital bed,
visibly exhausted; her hair hung disheveled around her face, she had deep
circles under her eyes and her freckles stood out clearly in her pale face. But
she gazed down at the small bundle clutched in her arms, with a warm smile and
a glow of happiness.
When it was
my turn, I carefully cradled my new sister on the stiff, white hospital bed
sheets. Her face was scrunched up like she had just taken a big, sour bite of
lemon and her tiny body was no bigger than a loaf of bread.
My parents
brought her home a few days later. Her face gradually lost its sour lemons
expression and she started to look around with bright-eyed interest. I always
tried to steal her away to take naps with me. In the rare palpable quiet, her
soft, furry head rested on my sternum and I felt the gentle rise and fall of
her belly as she breathed in utter peace.
She learned to talk and walk. She cried
petulantly for what she wanted and let out blood-curdling screams when things
were refused her. She puffed up her cheeks and gave sweet kisses or stretched
out her small arms to give short, clinging hugs. In short, I came to love her
dearly and wholly. And she came to love me with an intensity that I did not
fully realize until I left her a few months ago in Minnesota to begin college.
Sitting on
a bench outside my next class, I called my Mom. She reported about how much
Lily had grown, what new words she learned. And then, she related Lily’s new
nightly habit; she looks at a picture of me and kisses it again and again,
saying: “Goodnight Eliza, I love you.” Tears came to my eyes and I clenched my
jaw to keep it from trembling. It was a moment of infinite sweetness.
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