The Fun in Dysfunction

Nothing like a little family dysfunction to celebrate a major life marker.

My Mom was the one being celebrated and since it was a big birthday, it required everyone who ever mattered to her.

People like the best friend she went all through Catholic school with. The couples she and my Dad used to play bridge with when we were kids.  Her conservative sister and dimpled brother.

And, most importantly, her six daughters, of which I am the oldest, a fact often pointed out by the other five.

Getting to the party was the difficult part, a two and 3/4 hour drive up Route 301, but at least it allowed plenty of time for good road trip music.

Stuff like Pete Yorn's "Musicforthemorningafter," Local Natives' "Hummingbird" and the Arcade Fire's "Funeral."

Good thing I got my music fix in because once at the party, there were so many people that if music was being played, I never heard it.

Because I live in Richmond and the rest of my sisters live in Maryland, I don't see them all that often.

That's part of why I live in Richmond, but it also means I usually enjoy when I do see them.

We're really close in age, with all six of us having been born in an eight-year period.

And while that was problematic when we were all kids living at home, it only got more challenging now that we're all grown women.

Imagine the likelihood of any six women so close in age all being compatible with each other.

I'm no mathematician, but it seems to me that the odds are very small that they're all going to get along.

Years ago, back in the pre-Internet days, I found an article saying that large families of same-sex children tend to be fractious because of being treated like a unit instead of individuals, and sent it to my Mom.

I thought it explained a lot, but my Mom didn't see it that way.

Your siblings are your closest relatives, she used to tell us.

Closer than your father and I are to you. Closer than anybody. You should want to get along.

That wasn't what I wanted to hear when I discovered a sister had worn my new shirt without asking and returned it reeking of her obnoxious perfume.

Or when one of them took my new album and left it on the floor with scratches.

And especially anytime we were together in public and someone referred to us as "Pat and Carl's girls."

So over the years, we've each carved out very separate identities as a way of compensating for those days as one cog in a larger family wheel.

And frequently we've butted heads, unwilling to appreciate each other for how like and unlike we are.

About a year and a half ago, during a weekend away together (we call these annual jaunts "sistertrips"), unkind things were said, feelings were hurt, a sister left unexpectedly and another ended up in tears.

It was a big, old familial mess.

E-mails were exchanged afterwards, but two separate factions formed and there were clearly hard feelings on both sides.

As recently as last Fall, my mother had stated for the record that she wasn't going to have a big birthday party (despite the momentous birthday) unless we were all getting along.

Ignoring her, my youngest sister began planning a festive event, asking everyone to contribute different things and hoping for the best.

Coming from the furthest away, I was the last to arrive to a house filled with dozens of people I knew, many of whom I hadn't seen in years.

I jumped right in, greeting the family friend I used to babysit for, my sister's godmother I hadn't seen in decades, my tipsy cousin, the nurse.

I teased my Mom about how old she must be to have a daughter my age and agreed with my Dad that he was the luckiest man on earth.

And throughout the afternoon and evening, as we ate endless food, watched family videos, admired a scrapbook made for my Mom for the occasion, I wound up in long, funny, intimate and happy conversations with every one of my sisters, one on one and in small groups.

After maybe five or so hours, a photographer started to round up the sisters for a picture with my Mom.

One sister resisted ("We're not a photogenic family," she insisted), but got pulled in physically by another sister.

All of a sudden, it wasn't just the official photographer, but a phalanx of cameras facing the group of us.

We were told to smile and flashes started going off non-stop.

Once again, Pat and Carl's girls were a unit. And not just looking, but feeling very happy about it.

Happy birthday, Mom.

A Toast to the Mallet Master

No one wants to be informed  that they're giving the toast as the bubbly is being poured.

But as the oldest daughter, that responsibility fell to me.

I'd driven up to suburban Maryland, a place I despise, solely because today was my Dad's birthday celebration and it's a big year for him, one that ends in a zero.

Because of that, pretty much my entire extended family was in attendance. All five sisters with husbands and children, aunts, uncles, the whole gang.

I honestly can't recall the last time we were all in the same place.

And while I have no need to do it again anytime soon, the chaos of so many people eating, drinking, looking at old photographs and just catching up was great fun.

I especially enjoyed an album of photos from my Dad's youth because he grew up here in Richmond.

There were shots in front of their house on Colonial Avenue, in front of the Richmond Dairy where my grandfather worked and even a newspaper clipping of my Dad as one of "five husky youngsters playing at Humphrey Calder Playground."

Even funnier, there were photographs of me and my sisters in nearly identical little girl dresses (why would you do something that corny with six girls?) as well as of us with bad 80s hair.

It's astounding how big our thick, straight hair got during those years.

My brother-in-law pulled out a long-forgotten picture of him and me and our respective main squeezes at the time sitting on the dock at Kerr Lake after water-skiing (more correctly for me, after attempting to water-ski).

Did I ever look that impossibly young? Yes, apparently I did.

Hours into all this strolling down memory lane and catching up, my bossiest sister (#5) decided it was toasting time, to be followed by (hazelnut/chocolate) birthday cake time.

As I'm helping her pour dozens of glasses of Blanc de Blanc, she leans in and says, "You're doing the toast."

When the competitive sister (#3) hears this, she hisses, "How come you're giving the toast?" as if I've usurped her job or something.

She does consider herself Dad's favorite.

To my defense comes the most introverted sister (#2) who says loudly enough so that even the  non-family members can hear, "Because she's the OLDEST!"

I do not once in my entire life remember being introduced by one of my sisters that it wasn't with the clarification that I am the oldest.

Just in case there was any doubt.

So with no time to prepare something well-thought out, cameras were turned on and I stood up to toast a man who has shaped the woman I became.

"You talked to us. You listened to us. You taught us to play croquet. To the best Dad any six daughters could ever ask for."

Brother-in-law #3 waited a beat and then raised his glass to my Dad.

"And that was a lot of listening!" he said to great cheering.

But what smart man doesn't want to listen to the talkative females around him?

And my Dad has always been a very smart man. Which makes me a very lucky daughter.