In Port

I am one of five siblings. 2 sisters and 2 brothers. I fall near the baby end of that line, being one up from the bottom. Sometimes it was nice, sometimes not so nice of a position.

I would hear mom chatting with her friends at the fashionable green speckled kitchen table, about her 'in port' children. She and her friends would laugh. I never asked what that meant. I didn't know I didn't know or needed to know. I just knew it was something that must be a good thing or they would not be so happy about it.

Then I overheard my sisters chatting, not at the hard metal kitchen table, but from under the tree outside my bedroom window. In port children refers to when dad, a proud Navy man, was ...you guessed it, in port at home. He would be out to sea for months, then come home for a few weeks and off again he would sail.

I remember growing up thinking my sisters were the smartest people in the world and I knew when I got to be their age, I too would be as smart. Only thing was, I could never be the same age as them. Each year a birthday would come, I would be a year older but EVEN STILL, not their age yet. How was I to ever even things out. How was I ever going to know what they know.....

kids
how their minds work
or at least mine

Once grown, mom and I use to meet for lunch once a week or so at a restaurant. The last lunch we had together:
Mom sat across from me and while in random chat about work, housework and what shades of lipstick go with what shade of nail polish, mom drops a bomb shell. (I wonder if she carries C-4 in her purse) Mom said she only wanted one child. Mom said she did not want me but well, dad was in port...

That was more information than I needed. My mouth didn't drop but my heart did. She also told me she wanted to name me Cassandra but dad said that sounded like the name of a train. So then in my quest for more pain, after all, the wound was already open, I asked her how she came up with my name. She told me by the time she got to me, (I was #4 out of 5 children), she was out of energy and creativity to come up with a name other than the one she had picked out. She turned to my oldest brother, her first born for help. He is 12 years older than me. He had a girlfriend at the time. Can you guess what her name was?

Growing up, my oldest brother was so much older than I was to even care about me. At least it seemed that way. My oldest sister - she became active in my life in my teen years. She taught me the art of smoking a cigarette without dad finding out and how to iron jeans with your hands when they are hot and fresh from the dryer. Next the sister that is one year older than me. We shared a bedroom, much to her chagrin, most of our lives and bath water. Another story. Little brother - I adored. He taught me the rare ingredients for unconditional love.