What Growing up in a Large Family Taught Me at an Early Age
By: Rebecca Romanelli
Tags: Humor, Self Improvement, Illumination Curated, Family, Lessons Learned

A forthright attitude was appreciated. I became adept at telling anyone within earshot exactly what I thought, ocassionally without being asked for an opinion. Two older brothers always protested. “Who asked you? Who cares? Shut up already!”

I was walking at nine months. You had to be fit and fierce in our clan. photo/dad

Mother approved of my bold personality, originating from my astute observations of ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’, her matriarchal, no nonsense self. Whenever she heard a berating of my feistiness, she would rise to my defense. “She has a right to express herself as much as you do, Mr. Know It All. Her feelings hold as much weight as yours, so back off.” Victory!

My best friend, from high school would sarcastically remind me of my strong personality. “I wish you knew how to express yourself.” She became a psychotherapist years later. She said one of the biggest issues her clients sought counseling for was in finding and using their voice. A week in our household would’ve saved them years of therapy in the resurrection of self expression. Either that or send these shy, introverted souls to a potential hell on earth.

LIFE REQUIRES COOPERATION WITH OTHERS. YOU ARE NOT EXEMPT.

One fine summer day when I was 7, we were conscripted to pick cherries. I loved them and always ate as many as I placed in my bucket. The next morning drove home the necessity of group cooperation in a new form. Bathroom emergencies.

I deeply understood the power of peristalsis, banging on the bathroom door, my guts cramping in a persistant demand for release. My pounding became fast and furious after the pot hog yelled out “Go away! I’m not done!”

No longer able to wait, I grabbed a box of Kleenex and shuffled carefully, clenching my butt, into our back yard, in search of a private spot. I chose the rose garden in the side yard, due to infrequent traffic. I barely squatted when my entire colon released in one fell swoop. I wiped, stood up and admired my deposit in awe.

It held the exact shape of a double chocolate, softie ice cream cone, complete with a swirl on top. My father rounded the corner with pruners in hand. The not so rosy aroma must’ve wafted in his direction.

“Oh dear God! Did you just crap in the roses?”

“Dad, it wasn’t my fault! I had to go and I couldn’t get in the bathroom! All those cherries did me in! We need more than one bathroom for God’s sake.”

He stared at my monument, shaking his head in wonder.

“Where do you put it all?” he exclaimed, looking back and forth between my scrawny frame and my contribution to the earth.”Were you just going to leave it lying there?”

“Of course not! I know the scout rule: Never leave a trace. I was on my way to find a trowel to bury it.” Nice fib, made up on the spot out of sheer necessity.

Dad looked dubious, but he was also trying not to laugh at my pronouncement.

“Go wash your hands. I’ll take care of it, but never do this again okay?”

May, 1958, that cherry picking year with brother Tim. photo/dad

Another lively, organic, dinner conversation took place that night. It centered around the necessity of cooperation. ‘Someone’ in dire straits, it was announced, defecated in the rose garden because ‘someone’ wouldn’t get off the pot or stop poking their pimple.

Navel gaze, navel gaze, it wasn’t me, stop staring you jerks.

Before I went to bed, I saw my father sketching away on his drawing pad, creating an addition to our house, which included a new bathroom.