It's amazing I haven't needed therapy

It’s not easy being the youngest. I’m the 13^th of 13 grandchildren, and, until a new baby suddenly showed up at Christmas when I was five and a half, was the youngest of our clan. I have a cousin just a few months older than I, so you would think that we would have experienced similar hardships. You would be wrong.

Sure, we shared some disappointments. For example, every summer a good portion of our family goes to the beach together. When we were little, there was a total of eight children to entertain for two weeks. Our parents would take us to movies, amusement parks, and, one summer, to a beach half an hour away for laser tag.

Six of us played laser tag that day. Two of us watched those six play laser tag. I’m told it was the best trip we ever took. I beg to differ.

But what sticks out most in my mind, when I reminisce about those summers of my youth, is a song our aunt made up about the eight of us. It was entitled, I believe, “8 Little Cousins.” “Oh,” you say, “a nice ditty about children, based on that classic tale of the 10 little Indians!” You, sir or ma’am, have clearly never met my aunt. No, this was a cautionary tale of sorts, warning us not to jump on the beds in the apartment we shared. You see, these eight little cousins were all jumping on a bed one afternoon, when, one by one, verse by verse, they fell off. Starting with the oldest, seven children broke their legs. The eighth child, the youngest, made it to the end of the song before she fell off the bed. Did she, like the others, break her leg?

No.

She died.

The ending of this charming tale never changed, and, believe me, I heard it enough times to know. Every other kid loved this song, and my aunt would sing it for them, despite my obvious objections. My older cousins bitched about having to wash dishes; I was taunted mercilessly about my possible death. Lucky number seven, however, escaped both.