Being the oldest child in the family has its privileges. You’re the trend setter -- You help set the policy for punishment. You’re the example of the family -- every child after you will follow in your footsteps. You’re a trail blazer -- the first one to try out elementary school, and other scary experiences. But most important -- you’re the one who gets picked on the most, especially if you’re the oldest, and only brother among four other younger sisters.
Don’t get me wrong, I love all my sisters. But I felt definitely in the minority. By the age of eight, I had four sisters. They were all girls, ages six, four, two, and newborn. Each time I heard my mom was to have a another baby, I wished desperately for a brother. Not so I could have someone to help me carry on the family name, but to protect me from the girls.
They used to gang up on me. Once, the three oldest surrounded me, then hung unto me and pulled me to the ground. They jumped on me and tickled me -- practically to death. They pulled up grass and tried to bury me under it. They were ruthless. Of course, a strong eight-year-old boy was powerless against three girls whose ages added up to twelve. I usually ended up with a mouth full of grass, after being force fed for a few minutes, I still wonder how they had the strength to pry my locked jaws open.
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