When I was four years old, being the youngest of nine kids was great. I got lots of attention and all I had to do was look cute. Of course, some of my siblings had already moved out, and the ones that hadn’t went to school during the day except Mary. Thankfully, Mary was there to teach me the important things in life, including how to tell time and that Mary was my favorite sibling and the coolest person in the entire world. The most productive thing she taught me was how to tie my shoe, though this lesson was interrupted by the time she sent me across the road to tell my mom, who was at the church praying, that no, she would not sweep the floors. Maybe Mary didn’t realize that it is slightly dangerous for a four year old to cross a busy state highway alone.
As I got older, being the youngest child was not so great anymore. I now had to follow The Rule which states that the older Slattery sibling always gets the best seat in the car. I am the only child who fought to end this rule, and I am still working tirelessly today. I also developed a sour, negative attitude which I consider a scar from my experience being the youngest child. Of course I get picked on quite a bit, mostly by my brother James, who is two years older than me. But no matter how many times I tell myself the opposite, I love my big family and I love my place in it. I wouldn’t have it any other way.