The Ninth Child Syndrome

My sister Martha, number 4 of my 10 original siblings, died yesterday at 3:50 AM of liver failure in the hospital near St. Louis. Siblings #10 (Jim) and #3 (Amy) were holding her hands, and I was at the foot of the bed. It was peaceful, yet jarring. Serene, but catastrophic.  I’m back home today, and I’d meant to go to work today, but my Dear Boss, in all his wisdom and knowledge of me, told me to stay home. He was right - I thought I was okay, but had an unexpected shower of tears at the grocery store in front of the pickles. The man a little bit down the aisle considering his mustard options gave me a confused look and walked away swiftly, which got even more embarrassing when I realized what shirt I’m wearing today – the poor fellow must have thought I was having a breakdown because my favorite sweet baby gherkins weren’t there.    “We may be pickleheads, but we’re the best damn pickleheads in the state of Milwaukee.” - Squiggy, or Lenny, I can’t remember, Laverne and ...

This weekend I bit my fella’s armpit. Because even though I’m 53 and he’s a smidge older, and we’ve both been around plenty of blocks, I still want to thrill him - and myself -  by doing new things together. So I announced my intention, promised I wouldn’t break the skin, and he very kindly let me bite his armpit. Because I want to be the only one who has ever done that to him. It’s SPECIAL.  When I’m forced to be social, I so often repeat the same stories, because I know that they’ll get the same laughs. With him I don’t want to don the self-deprecating comic persona I use as my shield. I love telling him things that I have never told anyone before. I love searching for words rather than reading from the script. I love the way he watches me when I’m purposefully putting my words together, building the story just for him. It was one of those times when I confessed to him an odd secret bad phase from my youth. When I was little enough that I needed to pull a chair over to climb...