The Fifth Child

I wrote this a while ago and given that are about about to have our fifth child who seems to be following the family trend of trouble, I thought I would post it.

"Typically, the fifth child does not fare well in my family. The fifth child born has complications somewhere, either during the pregnancy or afterwards. For a new generation now, no one in my family, not sisters nor cousins, has gone on to have a fifth child.

My Mothers sister, the fifth child born, succumbed to diphtheria after falling into a sewer drain as a six year old. My Aunt's fifth child, a much wanted surprise, died in utero at 20 weeks gestation. There were others in this fifth child pattern who, somewhere along the way were sick or at worst snatched so cruelly by the hands of death. My brother was also a fifth born child.

A healthy 11 pounds 12 ounces at birth with a lusty cry and large saucer eyes just like his four older sisters, he was a big chubby and much wanted baby boy. Finally a boy! We his sisters were loved no less there is no doubt but he was the boy and adored by all. How very proud my Father was of his only son!

My brother was such a strong baby. He could pull himself up by grabbing his pram bar at only three months of age. He did this so he could watch the television. The flashing lights, the colors and the voices appeared to entrance him and he spent his energy willing his body to lift itself up so he could indulge in his passion. My Mother would pry his reluctant and fast gripping little fingers off the bar and lay him back down again, only to see him pop up a few seconds later.

My brother slept in the pram, as all of my Mothers babies did. The pram was placed next to our parent’s bed at night and wheeled around the house during the day. That is where the baby slept, in the pram.

This baby looked nothing like his four sisters. He was fair and blue eyed, we were much darker in appearance with chocolate brown eyes where his were cerulean blue. As infants none of us had an urge to move our bodies any earlier than we had to. My brother on the other hand was rolling furiously, both ways, by the time he was thee months old. My Mother would put him down on the floor to play, be gone only a minute and come back to find him gone. He rolled himself to where ever he wanted to be. Once, she came back in to find him wedged under the lounge chair. He'd rolled there and gotten himself stuck.

He was a big strong healthy boy. A blonde haired, blue eyed little angel. Daddy's little woodchopper, Mummy's pride and joy.

My brother slept in the pram. That's where all the babies slept, in the pram. His four sisters before him and slept there until they were big enough for the cot or until the cot was vacated by the previous child who had by then graduated to a bed. My brother slept in the pram, and on the morning of my sister’s birthday he was put into his pram for a nap.

It was a day like any other. Early mid morning was nap time for the baby and the baby napped in the pram. On nice days the pram was always put outside, just for 15 minutes, just to give the baby a little bit of sun during their morning sleep. Everybody did it. It was good for the baby. The baby slept in the pram.

On this day of celebration, the third birthday of my sister, my brother was put in his pram for his nap while my Mother began preparations for the up coming party. He was there only 15 minutes, just like every other day and just like with each of his siblings and every other baby in the street, 15 minutes of sun every day. It is good for the baby they say, it keeps them healthy.Today was not to be like every other day for he was not like every other baby. His strength and knowledge, far beyond his fleeting four months of age, were not the blessing his parents had hoped.

After his 15 minutes in the sun my Mother asked my Father to go and get her infant and wheel him back inside. His 15 minutes was up and it was time to come in. My Father headed off to do as he was asked.

When my Mother next saw my Father he was walking towards her, slowly, holding my brother high up on his chest, the infants head resting snugly on my Father’s broad, protective shoulder. My Mother saw them approach was slightly irritated that my Father had taken the baby from the pram. The baby was asleep. He should have left him to rest.

She asked for her baby, beckoning with her arms outstretched. My Father said nothing but slowly continued walking towards my Mother, his eyes locked with hers and he never let go. Again, more urgently she asked for her baby, stretching her arms further, gesturing for her Husband to hand her infant son over. My Father held his child more tightly and shook his head, all the while locking his eyes with my Mothers’. Confused, my Mother began to demand that my Father give her the baby, now. My Father shook his head and began to sob. "He is gone my love", is all he could manage to say. "He is gone".

He was the fifth child. The only boy, cherished and adored by all who knew him, and he was gone. His last breath expelled as he slept, in the pram."