What Is Your Birth Order?

To Only Children: Being the oldest child dooms you to the responsibility chip, whether you have no siblings or 7. Until both your parents die, you are being parented by people who have no clue what they are doing. They get better with younger children, but they don't know how to parent a 25 year old, a 40 year old, a 55 year old anymore than they knew how to parent an infant or toddler. Their grandparenting skills are nonexistent. Children raise their parents to be grownups. Being outnumbered makes the job more challenging and stimulating, but you are always up to it.

In the first picture, I am 2 1/2; Richard is one. In the second, I am 3 1/2,, Stephen is six months. In the third picture, I am 7; Peter is newborn. In the fourth picture, I am 12; Michael is 1. In the fifth photo, I was 13, Mark was 1 month.

Studying the pictures helps me clarify my family dynamics. Sibling closeness has mattered more to me than to my brothers. I try much harder to keep the family connected. Being both the oldest and the only girl seems central. I was my adult height when my two younger brothers were born; they were only 5 and 7 when I left home for college. I must have seemed a maternal figure to them. In some pictures I look like their young mother.

We did not grow up in the same family. My mother returned to school full-time when Mark was 5; when he was 7, she started teaching high school. Richard, Stephen, and I had had a stay-at-home mother until we went to college. Mark doesn't remember my mom staying at home full-time. My father retired before Brian finished college. Recently, my brother 11 years younger told me he felt abandoned when I left for college when he was 7. He confused me with my mom.

We have very different perceptions of our parents. Richard, Stephen,  and I remember our dad as a brilliant intellectual and mathematician; Michael and Mark  remember a frail old man who disappeared into Alzheimer's Disease. The three oldest remember our childhood perceptions of my mom as "just a housewife" who never went to college. My younger brothers remember her the way her obituary describes her: "teacher, activist, trailblazer."

With the death of my mom, Richard, 18 months younger, is my only collaborator for family history. Fortunately, Joe was too busy climbing on the roof as a kid to remember very much. I could write family fiction and convince everyone it is family history.

I struggled not to favor my first daughter Vanessa in  squabbles with her 3 sisters. Both her dad Chris and I were the oldest children of oldest children of oldest children--not the best recipe for marital harmony. Certainly Vanessa shows the same sense of responsibility for her younger siblings that I felt. Chris, Vanessa, and I llament that younger siblings are not sufficiently grateful to us, oldest, who fought all the battles necessary to whip parents into shape.

In my constant discussions with friends about baby spacing when my kids were young, I noticed that adult relationships with your siblings greatly influence you. If you love your sibs, you might think a brother or sister is the best gift you will give your kids. If you don't talk to your sib, you will feel guilty about the trauma you are inflicting on the oldest. As people only have two children, there will only be younger and older older. Middle children seem to have special gifts society will sorely lack. When I told 6 year old Elizabeth that I was pregnant with Patricia, she rejoiced, "Now I won't be the only middle child."

Faced with the challenge of caring for my mother during the last years of her life, my brothers and I had to confront and heal lifelong conflicts and misunderstandings. It is so easy to fall into childhood roles. My mom was always the family switchboard. We would call her, not each other; she would relay the news to everyone. I struggle very hard not to play the same role.

I adore my brothers and wish we saw each other much more often. We are scattered from Maine to North Carolina. My mother had five brothers as well. As a teenager, I used to reproach her, "Mom, how could you do this to me? You knew what it was like." My mom, a long-term care activist, used to begin her speeches, "I have lived with 12 men--long pause--only one of them intimately." Growing up with my brothers, I acquired a lifelong comfort around men. Daughters were a challenge; sons would have been easier. Taking care of my grandson revives many wonderful memories of my brothers as children.

Growing Up with Five Brothers

My dad was an actuary; my mom was a housewife who became a history teacher and activist after I left home. I have 5 brothers, 18 months, 3 years, 7 years, 11 years, and 13 years younger. All married relatively young; one brother divorced and remarried. They have 6, 0, 2, 1, and 2 children respectively. Two are grandpas, one with 5 grandkids, the other with 2. There is a lawyer, a chemistry professor, a teacher, a nurse, and an accountant. They live in Maine, upstate NY, North Carolina, Westchester NY, and Long Island NY.

Taking care of my toddler grandson Nate three days a week, I have recaptured many memories of my brothers as small boys. Growing up, I was extremely close to my brothers; we spent most of our free time together. We loved the beach, ice skating, roller skating, tree climbing, summer vacations, backyard baseball, touch football, and badminton. We played endless ping pong and knock hockey games, card games, Monopoly, and Scrabble. We had the biggest backyard on the block, and our house was always the neighborhood hangout. We had a basketball hoop attached to the garage that was in use day and night. There were no girls on the block, so I always played with the guys. I was passionately interested in baseball, and my brothers used to challenge their friends to ask me a baseball question I couldn't answer.

Looking back, the siblings might have relied on each other too much. Richard, Stephen,  and I were not very social; each of us had one best friend and two good ones. We never hung out with a group of peers. We always had each other to play with, argue with, compete with. We always defended our siblings against our parents and against neighborhood bullies. Except for Bob (the 4th child), we never dated in high school.

Rationality, intellect, and academic achievement were the family values, and we all honored them. Competitiveness was subtly encouraged even though my mother would occasionally inveigh against it half-heartedly. Sarcasm and teasing were prevalent; the victim was expected to take the joke. Excessive emotion was scorned; I cried alone in my room. I still find it absolutely humiliating to cry in public and feel critical of women who do. Except for my parents' deaths, I have virtually no members of my brother's crying past 3 or 4. The possibility of my dad's crying was unimaginable. My mother, who had 5 brothers too, always choked back her tears.

We ere encouraged to rejoice in how different we were from most people in our working-class suburban town. We were the intellectuals. When working summers as mail carriers, Richard and Stephen reported that no other families seem to subscribe to the same magazines me read. My dad strongly encouraged us to think for ourselves and not care what other people (except each other) thought. He pointed that the most people were too preoccupied with their own problems to think much about you. My brothers might not be much use for discussing emotional issues, but for intellectually stimulating, challenging conversations, they are terrific.

My brothers can see each other for the first time in 6 months and spend the evening discussing politics, not their personal lives. My brothers insist that they don't have to talk to their siblings frequently to stay close. Each is certain he would come through in a crisis, and their track record is excellent. We all seem very interested in what the others are doing, but as long as my mom was alive, my brothers would ask my mom instead of calling their brothers. Now I have moved in that family switchboard role.

We still influence each other tremendously. We very much want our siblings' approval. Andrew, the chemistry professor, has been very opinionated about the college and career choices of his nieces and nephews. I have been amused and touched by how each of my brothers checked out my daughters' prospective husbands. We freely borrow each other's expertise. I was worried that the family would scatter after my mom died, but we all have attended the second generation's numerous weddings and sibling milestone birthday parties.

There is now a younger generation; three of us are thriving as grandparents. My parents would have 3 great grandchildren, with 3 more on the way. Everyone adores the babies and showers them with attention and love.

We have always had a strong family identity--intelligent, independent, well-educated, critical, autonomous. Marrying a gorgeous bimbo was not an option for my brothers. When we get together, we all have a good time. We have the same sense of humor, vote for the same candidates, enjoy the same movies. We all take pride in the academic and career success of the second generation. I am aware to what extent this pride in intellectual achievement is a defense against social insecurity and sets us apart from other people. Thankfully, our children have not inherited that limitation.

Having 5 younger brothers has probably shaped me more than any other single influence. I like and sometimes actually understand men and invariably defend them to women. I loathe men-bashing. Until I became a mother, I was far more comfortable in a group of men than a group of women. I enjoyed being the only girl in my political science classes at Fordham, while I was miserable in a girls' Catholic college in freshman year.

I did not consciously want sons. I always told people my 4 girls were my reward for 5 brothers. I always wanted a sister and am sometimes envious of my daughters' closeness. But I love taking care of a grandson and talking to little boys in the playground.

Sharing a Room

Emily at Wheels on the Bus had an excellent post today on children's sharing rooms. Since I had a 2-bedroom apartment, a 3-bedroom apartment, and then a 3-bedroom house, my 4 daughters always shared rooms until the older ones went to college and shared rooms with absolute strangers.

Growing up, I was the only girl with 5 younger brothers; from the time I was 7, I had my own room. Before that, I shared a bedroom with my 2 younger brothers. I always wanted a sister, and I would have been happy to share a room with her. I always had roommates in college and in my first Manhattan apartments before I got married. My husband came from a family of 5 kids, and he always shared a room with his brother.

We took it for granted that our kids would share bedrooms. Originally we planned to stay in a New York City apartment, and only millionaires have a big enough apartment to give each of 4 children their own room. In no way did we ever feel we were depriving our kids because they didn't have their own rooms. In our 3-bedroom Manhattan apartment, 3 of them decided to sleep in the same bedroom, so they could use the extra bedroom as a playroom.

Getting the baby out of our bedroom was much easier because she looked forward to sharing a room with her sisters. Sharing bedrooms made bedtime easier all through early childhood.
I suspect my girls are closer because of their enforced togetherness. Sure there were conflicts, especially over cleaning rooms. I do recall my second child putting a strip of duct tape down the center of the room to establish cleaning responsibilities. Possibly they played more outside their bedrooms since they had less room.

Sharing rooms is excellent preparation for college. My kids always had roommates in college in dorm rooms much smaller than the usual bedroom. At Yale, one year, they had to share bunkbeds. In major US cities, most people share apartments for economic reasons.

I am 62. I only had my own room for 16 years--11 years of my childhood and 5 years between marriages. I have never felt deprived:)

What We Wanted for Christmas

How did we know what we wanted for Christmas in the days before television, glossy newspaper and magazine advertisements? The Sears Christmas Wish Book was our bible. After it came in early November, my mom used to hide it for a few weeks, so we didn't have months to want things she couldn't afford to give us. I don't recall regular visits to department stores, though we probably did visit Santa Claus occasionally.

We had more generic requests--bikes, trains, truck, dolls, chemistry sets, tinker toys--than kids do today. I recall being thrilled with a cake baking set. We didn't long for specific brands, colors, sizes. Our presents did not require batteries. We were aware that mom and dad were not rich.

But my memory could be playing tricks on me. Perhaps I spent hours gazing over the Sears catalog and coming up with a 25-item list. In my old age, I have learned to mistrust memories that compare me favorably to younger generations. When my daughter Rose was 5, she said, "anything Santa wants to bring me for Christmas is fine with me." I doubt my brothers and I would have been so unmaterialistic.

Would Size Order Have Helped?

The last picture of the Koch siblings was taken at my daughter Anne's wedding two years ago. I wonder what ordering--height, weight, age, income, or maturity--would have kept Andrew and Bob in check. In every picture at least one of them is clowning around. Everyone is behaving better in 1956, 1958,1961 and 1967. In the 1961 picture of Joe's graduation, Andrew was made to kneel down so he would not be obvious he was taller. Each time a brother surpassed me in height there was much rejoicing by all of them. I've always wanted to be taller; I still hate it that my brothers tower over me. I am relieved that Anne is shorter, Michelle is my height, and Rose and Carolyn aren't that much taller.

Little Brother

I have always loved this picture taken in the fall of 1947. First, I have been amused by how blonde I am. More importantly, this might have been the last time I had the advantage over Richard. In my baby book Mom claims that "Mary Jo and Richard were always ahead of mother. Often though she forgot he was so small and played rough." I am dubious; he does not look intimidated. Richard was always a far bolder spirit than his timid sister; he resembles Mom much more. All our lives, I have never been sure when he is pulling my leg. For many years Richard made me feel guilty for pushing him down the cellar stairs in his walker; then Mom explained that the culprit was Lorraine Larsen. Significantly, I thought I might have wanted to eliminate him.:)

Mary Jo, Richard, Stephen, 1949

This was taken in the summer of 1949. I am just turning four; Richard is two and one half; Stephen is about 7 months. I do have some vague memories of Stephen as a baby, but they are not specific. Stephen and I were blondes to begin with; my hair is already turning dark. Richard always had dark hair; I think he has changed the least over the years.

Drums and Batons

My mom and dad must have been dedicated to nurturing their children's unique gifts at whatever cost. Otherwise, why allow Santa to bring Richard a drum and me a baton.

We lived in a tiny two bedroom, one-story house. Was Richard allowed to play the drum inside? Richard  has always assured me I beat him up regularly when he was too young to fight back. No one has ever verified this accusation, and this picture proves it must be false. If I regularly terrorized my brothers, surely my parents would not have given me such an effective weapon. This picture proves Richard had not a fear in the world that my baton would come in contact with his head or his drum.

Were my frequent confessions that "I hit my brothers"  due to an overscrupulous conscience. and a lifelong susceptibility to Richard's stories? I afraid not. I confessed hitting my brothers, along with disobeying and talking back to my parents, every single time.The priest should have been more skeptical about my resolution of never doing it again. But I used my hairbrush, not my baton. A sharp elbow jab cannot possibly qualify as even a venial sin.

1959--Koches Without Pajamas

At least I look better! I believe this picture was taken in the upstairs apartment at Grandma Nolan's house in Queens Village. In 1959 Aunt Joan and Uncle Peter were living in the apartment that most of our uncles and aunts took advantage of when they were first married and saving for a house. I love Peter's and Stephen's bow ties and Michael's suspenders. Stephen is all spiffed up in a jacket. At only 18 months Mark looks ready to take on his brothers in a fair fight. When Mark was a toddler, I recall Mom's lamenting: "Is he so much worse or am I so old?"

What Was I Thinking?

This is Christmas 1959; I was 14 years old. None of my daughters or nieces would ever wear such pajamas, never mind permit her picture to be taken in them. My ghastly permanent compounds the horror. Being willing to include this picture of me should grant me amnesty for embarrassing my brothers, daugthers, nieces and nephews in subsequent pictures:)

Christmas Eve at Grandma's House

My daughter the writer wrote this description of a family Christmas Eve as part of a college application essay.

We’re in the midst of our annual Christmas Eve tree-trimming bash at my grandmother’s house. My father and my uncle Gerry are bringing in the tree, and my sisters and I are breathlessly awaiting its unveiling. I’m afraid that the reason is not that we’re waiting for this magical season to weave its spell over us. We get as sentimental as anyone over Christmas, but right now we’re wondering what geometric figure the tree will most closely resemble. My grandmother is very frugal. The result of this is that her trees are always cheap, but they also tend to have rather original shapes.

They bring the tree through the door, set it in the stand, and cut the netting around it. It does not disappoint. It’s, it’s...it’s nearly a perfect cylinder! My sisters and I begin hanging the ornaments. They consist of a few beautiful heirlooms, some traditional Christmas balls, many, many plastic multi-colored plastic disco balls, and a good number of styrofoam-and-yarn-elves which have been mysteriously decapitated over the years.

The traditional meal of tortilla chips and salsa is served. Much to everyone’s chagrin, but to no one’s surprise, Grandma has frozen the salsa. She has a rather touching faith that the best thing to do for any, and I do mean any, food is to stick it in the freezer for six months. Fortunately, the chips escaped unscathed.

My father places the angel on top of the tree, and we step back and admire our handiwork. It’s may not be one of man’s great artistic endeavors, but this tree has character, lots of character.

Christmas House

Surely you all remember the Klimczuk Christmas House on Jerusalem Avenue. Newsday had a story about it when Mr. Klimczuk died in 1994:

"For as long as anyone can remember in Uniondale, there has always been a Christmas house - the house on Jerusalem Avenue adorned each year with lights and electric candles, a red Santa's mailbox, a wishing well, a sleigh on the roof and Santa's workshop in the back.

And there was always Sam Klimczuk, dressed up like Santa Claus, handing out presents to the children, who lined the street on Christmas Eve. "He had so much stuff it was unbelievable," said Vincent Alexander, Klimczuk's next-door neighbor for 15 years. "He gave you the Christmas spirit. A lot of people say they don't feel the Christmas spirit. But if you lived next door to him, you felt it. " Klimczuk would start decorating right after Thanksgiving and soon the brick house with faded yellow siding would be lit up like a carnival - altar boys, elephants, the Pope, eight Christmas trees, reindeer, a black Madonna, a space shuttle and crew, chirping birds.

And just as the December sun would go down, thousands of lights would turn on. "Thousands of people came," said Jack Chan, chief of auxiliary police in Uniondale. "I think he was the greatest. He was willing to do all this work just to make some people happy, especially young people.' There were so many lights, some of Chan's officers helped Klimczuk rebuild a used Army Reserve generator so he could provide his own juice, Chan said. For the last 30 years on Christmas Eve, Chan and a dozen auxiliary officers directed traffic and kept the lines moving. The lines stretched around the block. Although the traffic sometimes got to be a nuisance and screeching brakes mingled with Christmas music, the house was part of Uniondale's landscape.

What We Wanted For Christmas

How did we know what we wanted for Christmas in the days before television, glossy newspaper and magazine advertisements? The Sears Wish Book was our bible. I don't recall regular visits to department stores, though we probably did visit Santa Claus, didn't we? Help me out here guys.

I suspect we had more generic requests--bike, trains, truck, dolls, chemistry sets, tinker toys. I recall being thrilled with a cake baking set. We didn't long for specific brands, colors, sizes. Most of our presents did not require batteries. We were aware that Mom and Dad were not rich. But my memory could be playing tricks on me. Perhaps I spent hours gazing over the Sears catalog and coming up with a 25-item list. In my old age, I have learned to mistrust memories that compare me favorably to younger generations. When Katherine was 5, she said, "anything Santa wants to bring me for Christmas is fine with me." I doubt a Koch would have been so unmaterialistic.

Christmas Guys, 1959

Stephen, Michael, and Peter experiment with varied identities at Christmas, 1959. Dating these pictures is a challenge where there is no obvious clue like a graduation or an identifiable vacation place. Sometimes the slides are dated, which helped me out here. Stephen is wearing a Notre Dame football shirt that Uncle Frank gave him when we visited Uncle Ken at the Paulist Novitiate in 1956, but that doesn't help much because Michael would have been a baby if it were 1956. It got easier to decide how old my brothers were when they stopped wearing the same crew cut.

I used to think Dad only took pictures during family vacations, Communions, Confirmations, and graduations. When I was looking for Christmas slides, I realized that Dad only took pictures outside. Either he didn't have a flash or the flash worked very badly. The few indoor shots are poorly lit. I have to work hard to make them bright enough to be visible.

Christmas 1959

Richard, Stephen, Peter, and Michael pose next to the Christmas tree in the dining room. I would imagine this icture was taken in 1959. I wish I could see the tree more clearly; I probably still have some of those ornaments. Is Peter holding his blanket?

All the boys seem to be sporting homemade haircuys. I rememer how thrilled Mom was when she got the buzzers that would enable her to save money on barbers and how frightening her first attempts were. I would have left home before I let her touch my hair:)

Our Christmas trees remain a mixture of tacky sentimental ornaments and more tasteful ones. Mom's ornaments have become more desirable since we can no longer tease her about them.

Mom and Mark, Christmas, 1959

I think this is 1959. Mark was that big when he was 18 months old. Mom made those stockings for us in her domestic phase. Before she went back to college, she pursued crafts; I recall her making hats and sock monkeys. She also was a good seamstress, making most of my clothes until I graduated from high school.

I still have most, if not all, of those stockings. What happened to the brass plate on the wall? I will be posting other Christmas pictures, hoping to stir up memories.

Christmas 1953

Previously I have labeled this picture Christmas 1953. I am eight; Richard is 6; Stephen is 5. I have begun the fruitless quest to curl my hair. I have not yet admitted even to myself that I need glasses, but I am cheating on school vision tests.

Richard and I are demonstrating our precocious musical talent on a giant xylophone. Stephen does not yet appear to have his chemistry set.

So many pictures appear to be of us in our pajamas. Does anyone remember how early we were allowed to get up on Christmas day? What time were we supposed to be in bed every night? I recall monumental fights with Mom all through high school about bedtimes.
She needed her sleep so I had to go to bed earlier than I wanted or needed to.

Mom on a Ladder, Christmas 1953

Characteristically, Mom is on the ladder decorating the top of the Christmas tree. Notice she isn't holding onto anything to keep her balance. She does appear to be wearing an apron. I am just grinning for the photographer. It probably never occurred to either Mom or Dad to reverse roles.

I keep noticing all that tinsel on Koch Christmas trees. The Hawkins family long ago abandoned tinsel for fear first the babies and then the cats would eat it. Besides, Chris could not stand to watch the girls hurl tinsel at the tree in huge clumps.

Legend has it that Mom was on a ladder painting the living room ceiling the day Richard was born. Given that he was born at 11:45 pm, that is probably true.

Family Christmas 1953

This posts are going to be organized by stream of consciousness. I wondered who took this picture. For a change, Dad is in it. (I found a later picture that solved the mystery; Sophie took it. Sophie needs a post of her own.) Beneath the stairs are MJ, Richard, and Aunt Mary. I can't explain what I am wearing on my head. On the stairs are Aunt Joan, Dad, Mom holding Peter, Uncle Dick, Grandma Nolan, and Stephen. This was taken at Christmas 1953.

The bannister of the stairs never changed. They don't seem to be carpeted. Do anyone else remember the wallpaper? Next to Aunt Mary, almost out of the picture, is our first Hi-Fi. I think it remained in the basement for most of our lifetimes. I remember how excited I was when Dad first bought it. I recall hearing Beethoven's Symphonies around that time. Dad loved classical music; he makes knowledgeable references to it in his letters to Mom during the war. He always wanted to listen to WQXR (the classical music station) in the car. In another picture, I discovered that there is a bookcase under the stairs; we got the Hi-Fi later on.l

Mystery Fireplace--Christmas 1951

I suspect this picture was taken at the same time as the first one of Mom reading, Christmas 1951. We are all wearing the same pajamas.

But where are we? Is that a fake fireplace with the sole purpose of providing a place to hang Christmas stockings? Does anyone remember that wallpaper? Selecting wallpaper does not seem to have been one of Mom's talents.

How long did you believe in Santa Claus? Roger Tuffili (sp?) corrupted me about both Santa Claus and sex. I didn't believe him, and stayed up Chrstmas Eve to confirm the sad truth with my own ears. I suspect I must have been about seven or eight. What I don't remember is whether I immediately spoiled my brothers' innocent faith in Santa. Vanessa and Elizabeth were eager to corrupt Katherine, but all three conspired to keep Patricia a believer for as long as possible.

Does anyone else remember how excited we were when the Sears Christmas catalog arrived? That was our principal source of ideas for presents. We didn't have television to seduce us.