I’m the youngest of 10 children. I have four older brothers, Lester, Paul, Carl and David, and five older sisters, Anita, Jannetta, Mary Alice, Dorothy and Gladys. It’s the older sisters I’ve had a problem with in life. Each one of them honestly thinks she was Mom’s favorite daughter!
I guess I have to admit, I started this whole jealousy thing they have with me. I blabbed to them what Mom told me when I was old enough to understand: “Carole, you were not an accident! Pop and I wanted one more baby. We just didn’t feel complete. The first time we laid eyes on you, we both realized we finally perfected the mold. We didn’t need to have any more children. You were perfect!”
Naturally, the sisters seethed in jealousy. I suppose it didn’t help, over the years, when I pointed out in photo albums: “See, Mom is holding my hand!” or “See, Mom always tried to stand next to me!” I even said, in looking at our formal family photo, “Look, even the photographer knew enough to place me right next to Mom. He knew I was Mom’s favorite daughter!”
They always insisted I was called “Baby Carole” and I got spoiled. They think, as the baby, I never had to do chores like they did on the farm. Never. Once again, I had to let them know, “You all married or joined the service. I was left alone at home with Mom and Pop. With all of you gone, not only did the chores in the house fall on me, but the chores outside too!”
Once I was grown and married, in the early 1970s, my sisters and I held our traditional parties together every year. I was beginning to feel loved and wanted again. But it didn’t take long until jealousy overcame them once again.
It all started because of birthday, Mother’s Day or whatever occasion cards I sent to Mom. I signed them, “From your favorite daughter, Carole.” The sisters were so jealous, they started sending cards to Mom and signing, “From your favorite daughter.”
I tried not to be annoyed, but at one of my birthday parties, they got me riled about “never having worked on the farm as a kid.” I retaliated. I brought out my scrap book and showed them the cards I saved from Mom. It said, “To my favorite daughter, Mom.” I even found another card from Mom stating, “Why you are my favorite one, is quite a surprise to everyone!” They said they received cards from Mom too that said they were her favorite daughters. Their excuse was, “We didn’t save them!”
By the time Mom was in her 80s, things backfired for “favorite daughters.” She had been having eye problems. One day, she called me at work: “Carole, since you’re my favorite daughter, would you do me a favor?” Naturally, I said I would do what I could. She then asked, “Could I have one of your eyes for surgery?” After each of us “favorites” received this same question, we decided to end the “favorite daughter” routine in a hurry!
Some of us, namely me, can’t let well enough alone. My birthday was coming, and the sisters were going to celebrate with Mom at her house. In order to be ready for the party, before the others arrived, I came early. Upon driving down Mom’s street I noticed quite a few of those orange cones sitting around a small hole in the road. An idea struck. I’d take two of the orange cones in my car, park in Mom’s driveway, and place the cones in back of the car. When the sisters arrived, they’d see I had the priority of the whole driveway. I knew I could return the cones within at least 30 minutes. Mom could always be counted on for a good laugh. I told Mom what I wanted her to say when the sisters arrived. Mom and I laughed heartily as we watched the sisters get out of the car. Upon entering the house they shouted, “Why can’t we park in the driveway? What’s with the cones?” Mom said, “I called Carole to come early and place the cones. Since it’s her birthday she has priority!” I was just about to go outside and take the cones back when Pop arrived, cones in hand. He yelled, “I’m taking these back. Do you know you can pay a fine for what you did?” At the door he turned and yelled some more, “Grown children! And you too, Mom!”
We decided to behave for awhile, at least until Mom’s stroke. The 10 children had come to do caretaking when Pop had his stroke, so we decided to do the same for Mom. She was child-like in her manner, but still had a sense of humor. Once she was able to be out of bed, we kept her in a wheelchair. For some unknown reason, Mom always remembered my sister Jannetta’s name. And she always repeated it three times. Jannetta insisted it was because she was Mom’s favorite. I told Jannetta, hurt feelings or not, I think Mom’s cell memory somehow recalls scolding her the most, and that’s why she calls her name three times.
With Mom’s caretaking, the sisters always held their birthday parties at Mom’s house. One day, when it was my turn to sleep over, I walked in through the garage door into the kitchen. Mom was alone and suddenly smiled and clapped when she saw me. I had another idea. My birthday party was coming in two weeks. This would give me time to train Mom about clapping when I walk in the garage door. So for two weeks, when we were alone, I went in and out of the door, and upon entering, told Mom to clap. She always did. It wasn’t too long after this that she clapped without me even prompting her. All the better. Mom and I had many laughs over this clapping. I was going to prove once and for all that I was indeed Mom’s favorite daughter. The day of my party arrived. I came late on purpose. Everyone was in the kitchen when I entered. Without hesitation, when Mom saw me, she smiled and clapped and clapped and clapped. I rushed over to her, kissed her and said, “I know I’m your favorite daughter, Mom, but you know this clapping, whenever I come, will only make the others jealous!” I never told my sisters our secret.
Today, I’m 74. Three of my sisters and four brothers are no longer living. I feel I can speak for every one of my sisters, that none of us would give up the right and the honor of having been “one of” Mom’s six favorite daughters!
Carole Christman Koch grew up in Berks County and has been published in numerous publications. She has a passion for writing and has many stories from growing up on a farm to everyday stories.
