day 23 - 24/11/20 : 6'2 baby

As you may be shocked to hear, I've once again run out of ideas. Boss Baby 2: Family Business is coming out to cinemas soon so I guess God has officially left. Considering it's a lil fun fact for people when I'm getting to know them, I guess I'll talk about what it's like being the youngest of 9 kids and just childhood memories in general.

I love the reaction people make when they find out I've a big family. It's a mix of shock, awe and pity for my mum having to squeeze all of us out. There are certain quirks for being cast in the home video version of Cheaper By The Dozen. Hand-me-downs in every direction you look. Dinner time being less a time and more so just a kitchen with a revolving door. Answering the phone and the aunty or uncle who called responding with your brothers' and dad's names before getting round to you. Privacy becoming more of a prized commodity. Bustling childhood memories and the relentless and merciless breakdown of your parents' willpower. Your ma's friend saying, "Oh so this is your baby!" while this 6'2 baby stands there muttering under his breath, "I'm a grown ass man". Comparisons to your siblings. Life advice from 8 other people that probably went through the same thing at what feels like an important part of your life.

Being the youngest can very easily be like being a contestant in Takeshi's Castle during the 'Knock knock' race where everyone runs through doors, unable to figure out if it's the real door until they've already been smacked back into the mud. I'm the sneaky guy hanging around at the back. All these sad sops I call my family are being flung into the mud while I wiggle myself through the right door after them. True to that, I think one of best things about having a big family is you've so many people you can rely on (and bodies to throw into incoming doors). There's also some awkwardness and difficulties of having a big family same as everything else but they always tend to outshine those.

There's an 18 year gap between myself and my eldest sister Marianne so it's safe to say there's a few generational jumps in this one family. Growing up, I was mainly surrounded and did things with my two next youngest sisters, Nuala and Helen. I know from a lot of nostalgic chats at Christmas that Katie, Luke, and Lizzie formed their own militia group, deadset against abolishing the 10pm curfew by any means necessary so when it came round to me, things like being grounded and having a curfew weren't much of a thing. Throughout all this, the generational jump meant that my older siblings held just as big a role in raising Helen, Nuala and me as my parents did. Patrick taught me how to shave, Gerry was the one having a kick about with me, Marianne brought me on my first holiday abroad, and Katie was like a second mum to me.

All this tender loving care didn't stop me from being a little shit thought, oh no sir. I remember being like 7 and me and Nuala going to war with each other for a few years. Let's set the scene. I come in from a long hard day of P4 class and lie down on the sofa to watch some much needed The Simpsons. Enter Nuala, rampaging, maniacal, eyes-blood red and looking intently at the TV controller.

"I'm watching Hollyoaks now."

I protest, still an innocent blue-eyed child, "I'm watching Simpsons."

"Hugh, I'm doing GCSEs all day - you're just watching cartoons. Let me watch my show" she spits.

Before I can protest again, the controller is snatched from my gentle, soft 7 year old hands. A freckle - a kiss from God - disappears from my face that day. I've had enough. Only the day before I was trying to play games on miniclip and she kicked me off the family computer saying she needed to do school work. I won't stand for this injustice any longer. We start shouting now. Teeth gnash and we're snarling at each other. Our parents aren't there to pull us back with the lead. I find the words inside me. I let them all spill out. "You're a selfish, ungrateful, mean, fat, lazy, stupid, .... heartless... ugly ... slag." (slag is not good form for a 7 year old to use but I didn't want her to tell on me for swearing so I was trying to find a workaround and slag must've landed in my lap at the time).

I had said what I needed to say. The fury is running through my veins now and I feel vindicated. What started as anger on her face now turns to a slight bemusement.

"Are you done?" she asks, mockingly.

I walk out of the living room, defeated, knowing then that I would be haunted by this day for the next 14 years.

This has been a bit of a running joke for us for the past 14 years though. She didn't offer to make me a cup of tea when she was making one for herself? Selfish, lazy, ungrateful...

When people talk about how the last born is spoiled, it's usually meant that they're spoiled materially but for me, it was more-so just being spoiled by the opportunity and help presented by my family rather than any parade of gifts. My first tattoo is a number in roman numerals because Lizzie and Luke have roman numerals on their arms and when I asked what it was for, they didn't give me a straight answer. Me, being a 9 year old with little other notion, instantly assumed that they were part of some secret club that I couldn't be a part of. Well you elitist shits, I've got one too now so leT ME INTO YOUR CLUB.