Stories from my childhood...

I grew up in a family that included six kids - four girls, two boys, and an age span from 1951 down to 1962. Three of us, my brother, sister, and I take up three years - 1957, 1958, and 1959. My sister and I are the same age for 16 days and then she gets to be older again, a fact I rarely let her forget.

Large families are unique. The dynamcis are fluid, tempers are often volatile, and there never seems to be enough space or privacy. Yet, I wouldn't change my childhood for anything. I once envied my friends with small families but now, looking back, I think how lonely it would've been to be an only child.

My mother got married at 29 and had the six of us, the last the year she turned 40. She raised the six of us on little money, discipline, and a lot of love. Once my youngest sister entered kindergarten, she went to work because she had to; we needed the money.

My father, ten years older than his wife and once divorced, was one of those bedrock guys; he'd do anything for anyone simply because it needed doing. He was quick to laugh, worked hard, and expected a great deal out of us - usually without telling us. We always seemed to know what was expected of us and, for the most part, we behaved accordingly.

Dad's opinion counted but Mom's word was law. That's all there was to it.

One winter's night, while my mom was fixing dinner, us kids (none yet in those teenage years) were in the 'back room'. This was the room off the kitchen that acted as a catch all; the washer and dryer were back there. So was an extra fridge and a huge freezer. We got to play back there at times, especially when my Mom needed some quiet time.

On this night, we were playing blind man's bluff, which is a game where one person is blindfolded and tries to catch one of the other players. For us, however, a regular blindfold wouldn't work; you could peek and that wouldn't do.

We used the hood from a winter jacket. You wore it backward, completely covering your face and there was no cheating possible. We took our games seriously.

My brother was 'it' and we were having a grand time; laughing and yelling right up until my brother tripped on a corner of the plywood floor that was sticking up. He fell and hit his head. I don't remember on what any more but I do remember when my mother took the hood off to make sure he was okay.

His forehead was split and bleeding copiously, as head wounds do. My Mom, being a stoic Finn, sat down with the butterfly bandages and adhesive tape and went to work to fix him up. We all gathered around, fascinated.

My dad, of course, came home in the middle of it. He took one look at his son, turned to my mom and inquired: Don't you ever watch these kids? (His language was a bit saltier, I think).

My Mom's reply was short and to the point: Yes, I do. I watched him fall.

As I get older, times like those come back to me with completely different meanings, hence the point of this trip down memory lane.

Isn't that the sum of a parent's job? You raise your kids, you teach them to the best of your abilites and then...

You watch them fall.

Once they have, you pick them up, dust them off, patch them up and let them go and do it all over again until one day...

They get up on their own.

I've done my share of falling in my 51 years here. But, thanks to my parents, I always manage to get back up again...

Thanks, Mom and Dad. You done good.