Christmas - Are You The Youngest?

You may be the youngest in your family, or know someone who is in theirs. Although not many I know really like being the youngest, at Christmas time it can be a blessing. I am the youngest in my family and not by a little. My sister is 7 years older and my brother 5. Although it doesn't matter now, it once did. Christmas as the youngest.

When I was about 6 or so on Christmas Day, my brother somehow talked me into riding down the carpeted staircase in our house on board the smooth, cardboard box his new electric football game came in. I FLEW down the steps, all 17 of them at lightning speed. I bolted right down the steps, through the small hall and right into the foyer at seemingly the speed of sound. As I crashed into the front door, my dad was there to pick me up, brush me off and assure me that I was OK and that the sonic boom I created with my jet supersonic run, didn't scare my mom too much. But I was embarrassed, and on that day I really felt like the youngest. Duped by a much wiser, more cunning adversary, who preyed on the meek. - Me. That record breaking Evil Knievel run, burned into my young mind like a branding iron. But all was OK. We were all kids and I was the youngest.

A few years later on Christmas day after we all opened our gifts from Santa, we took the new sled riding toys out to a hill near our house for a test run in the Metroparks. The hill was not too tall, and not too small for me. Just right. I remember it like it was yesterday. We were the only ones there. The fun we had. Run after run, pictures, and home movies. That day it was good to be youngest. Maybe it was because I remember feeling in between that day. My dad was really good at that. That day, I got just enough attention to fill the youngest in me, and enough independence to climb back up the hill all by myself. And if I needed help, I got just the perfect amount of assistance from someone. It was a sunny day, a perfect day. It was Christmas card stuff on Christmas Day, and it was sent special delivery to my memory that very morning, and is still there today - no postage due.

A few years later I was 16. Christmas day that year was the last day my dad was ever home in his own house. He was unable to keep up with the cancer he had been diagnosed with a few months earlier. That morning we went over and picked him up from the hospital and brought him home for just the day. I remember lifting him out of the car, and into a wheelchair. And into chairs at the house. I helped him do about everything he needed that day that needed muscle. I had grown. I was a big kid. I didn't talk a lot with him that day, but there was an understanding, and a transference undeniable that afternoon. For it was that day that I got the full understanding that I was my fathers son. And the cycle was complete. He had done all he could do in the time he was allowed. As I remember it now, I tried to give him just the right amount of help he needed on that day. Just as he had with me on Christmas days gone by.

Sometimes I wonder if I did it right. I hope I did. ....Those kind of times can be a tough balancing act. Plus I was dealing with an expert. After all, my dad was the youngest in his family too.

Merry Christmas!