Share and Share Alike

When you grow up in a family with a tribe of children, sharing is a fact of life. My sisters Teresa and Maeve (#s 7 & 8) and I (#9) were born in quick succession; if my math is correct, there are 29 months and eight days between Teresa and myself. The three of us, being close in age and all girls, spent a lot of time together. A lot of time. We shared a bedroom, a very slick Emerson turntable, and a well-worn Saturday Night Fever album. We played Disco Inferno over and over and shared pictures torn from Tiger Beat. We shared clothes, although Maeve wouldn’t share her Shaun Cassidy/Joe Hardy t-shirt. Teresa and I on the other hand, shared the experience of dating the same guy—not at the same time—but the same guy, with Teresa proving to be smarter than I by bowing out of her stint much faster than I.

I think we shared well most of the time; if anyone tinkered with it at all it would have been my grandmother. She lived with us for years and she favored the girls because we were less bratty and more tolerable than our brothers. She was inclined to treat the girls to special lunch outings to Happy Steak and spoiled us with her favorite jam thumbprint cookies; those were probably our most ‘selfish’ moments. But we were used to hand-me-downs and ‘taking turns.’ I remember the phrase ‘share and share alike’ being thrown around, sometimes more as a means of taunting each other, but we did it anyway.

One thing that was mine and mine alone was my much coveted role as the fifth and youngest daughter. I don’t think that I was spoiled really, but I knew the place I held was a sort of privilege and there were times when I milked it. You know, crying a little excessively and loudly to make sure my parents heard how upset their poor little girl was; playing sick to avoid school or weekend chores; claiming insomnia so I could stay up late and watch Kojak; or, being ‘cheeky’ with my mother and when corrected, blaming my older siblings for teaching me such impudent ways of speaking. Nothing big, but I knew I had that advantage and I learned to use it.

Our grandmother died in early 1976 and in the weeks and months that followed, our mother didn’t feel well—I think we assumed she was sad.  My younger brother, the then-youngest child, was six, so imagine our surprise when we learned that my mother was expecting another baby—and woo-hoo, her due date was close to my birthday. I think we were all excited, I know I was excited, until I realized that if this baby was a girl, my days as the youngest girl were numbered. I remember how we discussed the possibility to even the score and how having another girl would mean we’d finally have six girls to match the six boys. I don’t remember if my parents knew the sex of their twelfth child, but if they did and if I ever heard it, I must have been living in denial because I crossed my fingers and prayed for a boy all the way to the end.

September 25, 1976 started out much like any other Saturday morning—except my mother went into labor. I couldn’t believe it. I was about to embark on my double-digit years, my ascent to adolescence…and here was a baby coming dangerously close to my birthday. The devastating realization was only worsened when it occurred to me that at any moment, my nine-year and three hundred and sixty four day reign as the youngest Cowan girl could come to an end.

My mother had a few friends stop by that Saturday and then at some point, I don’t remember exactly when—it could have been in the middle of the night—she was off to the hospital with my father. Sunday morning came, the day of my long awaited tenth birthday. I probably cussed about it. I know I was sad…sick to my stomach actually, and this time not faking. I had been excited about the baby—if that baby was a boy—and I felt a little guilty for feeling so bratty.

On Sunday afternoon I took some of my birthday money and walked my grown up ten year old self to Sav-on. I wandered sadly up and down the aisles looking at Lip Smacker and lotions and cheap costume jewelry. I decided on a very grown up and lovely smelling bottle of Suave Strawberry Essence shampoo. My hair smelled delicious that night. Dinner time came and went and still my father was at the hospital. Oh, oh, oh…it was getting close to bedtime and maybe, just maybe, this baby would wait until September 27^th to make its debut. I went to bed and remember praying my usual sweet little childhood prayers…and begging God: Please let the baby be born tomorrow…please God, I’ll do anything…but if has to be born tonight, please make it a boy. How sad that in my ten year old head I must have thought that at the eleventh hour God would decide the outcome of that baby’s sex.

I don’t know when I fell asleep but my father woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me the news: Happy Birthday, he said, you have a new sister…your own birthday present! I was surprised that I didn’t cry or protest or ask him to send her back.  I was surprised that I actually felt excited, even in my half sleep state, and didn’t want to find the doctor that delivered that baby by C-Section and demand to know why he couldn’t have waited just three more hours. None of those things really mattered after all and when my baby sister came home we were all thrilled to have her. Every Thursday night my mother would go to church choir practice and those were the nights that I got to help take care of Moira and quietly tell her how to work the role of youngest girl. She managed to outdo me with milking it, and even though she wasn’t a boy, she was definitely a keeper.