by John G. Fedoriska Jr.

Created on: August 02, 2009

I was the reluctant oldest of five kids. I say this because looking back on my childhood, it's a wonder I even had one at all. The oldest three of us were eleven months apart. That meant that at one time during the year two of us would be the same age for approximately one month give or take as the stork flies. I guess the age factor must have become very hard for mom and dad to keep track of without a scorecard. So, being the die-hard Catholics they were, one of two things happened. Either they decided to heck with what the Pope said about birth control and Dad started wearing raincoats, or they just flat out gave Mr. Wiggles a much needed break.

That's quite a handful, five. I was the oldest followed by my younger brother, than a sister right behind him. Needless to say Mr. Wiggles found his calling later and two more babies eluded the dingo. Another sister, and then came "Face", the youngest sister. Names are being witheld to protect genetic recipes.

As the oldest I was responsible to make sure the others came home safely from school, changed, and basically stayed out of trouble. All this until mom came home from the factory or dad woke up from sleeping due to his swing-shift work. As kids we weren't really that bad, because in those days you didn't spare the rod and spoil the child. This only applied to the oldest three because by the time my last two sisters came, society began to say (with no rhyme or reason)..."Oh what the hell, let's spoil the kid and give him more than we had."

Before that happened though Mom usually saved up all her complaints against the "Gang of Three" for Saturday morning and Dad took us down to the basement for some genuine rawhide, minus Rowdy Yates. (That's Clint Eastwood's role in the Rawhide TV series...call that a spoiler of sorts for the spoiled). No big deal, until the day my brother put a small flat pan down his behind. Wouldn't you know it, Dad forgot to bring his belt down that day. In retrospect we both wonder how he could not have seen at least a small telltale bulge under the pajama bottom. Oh well, after the initial loud bang, some cussin' and the removal of crumpled tin, his hand couldn't have been hurt too badly. It seemed alright when he used it spanking my brother's bare behind with it afterward.

Moms are great in the sense that somedays they open up a diner for kids and somedays it's dad's turn. Trouble is when it's dad's turn sometimes you just don't have the same menu preferences. Like the time she made sandwiches

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