Kevin Morris was born on February 13, 1959 and became the last edition to our already large family. He was child number six.
His arrival was met with joyous relief by me, my siblings and mostly by my Dad. The pregnancy was marked by how badly my Mom took to being pregnant for the sixth time. She was at the age when this was in her past – she thought. She didn’t want to be pregnant; she didn’t want to raise another child; and she didn’t want to be anything but miserable about it. All around her paid.
My Dad was inexhaustibly patient during this time. We older kids learned to keep a zone around Mom and not to engage her. We would challenge her at our peril.
Mom’s attitude was such about her condition that the couple next door didn’t know she was expecting until Dad told them about Kevin. The two women had continual contact until the last few weeks. I guess my Mom was a good actress.
I was thirteen and in eighth grade at a Catholic school. I don’t remember being embarrassed by the addition of a little brother or the realization that my parents still did what was needed to have a little brother for me.
Unlike today’s “churn ’em out” hospital policies, women stayed for about a week before going home. Dad cared for us during Mom’s stay at the hospital. Breakfast was always toast and coffee. Dinners were provided by family, friends and neighbors and Dad always brought home dessert for us. However, Dad’s bagged school lunches became the thing of legend. His heart was in the right place, but he was clueless about what to pack.
Dad would review his plans for Mom’s return with his two eldest children: me and my sister, Ellen. We were expected to help out even more than before. Ellen was assigned the baby related chores: diaper changing, feeding, holding. I was promoted to family boss in Dad’s absence.
Ellen got the worst of the deal, but my chores had problems. I learned if my two cantankerous brothers acted up, I would be held responsible for their actions. Bummer.
This time marked my entrance into adulthood. Acting like a child was now replaced by stopping other children from acting so. I learned what it was like to accept blame for failing to control the actions of those in my charge. This early training served me well in facets of my adult life.
As I write this, I remembered that at the age of thirteen, Jewish boys and girls undergo bar and bat mitzvahs marking the dividing line between childhood and adulthood. I always admired this ceremony since it celebrated a boy’s or girl’s public elevation to adult.
I guess this time for me was marked by the arrival of brother Kevin.
It was well worth it.