30 AprAfter Eight Kids, My Baby Turned Seventeen

Some of you may be able to imagine what an adventure raising eight children is. From my first baby born on Keesler Airforce Base thirty-six years ago to my last baby born at home twenty years later, the fun has never ended. There have been thousands of walks; night times up with croupy kids; chess tournaments; black belt tests; new drivers in car accidents; juggling; Junior proms; unicycles; “You’re ruining my life” statements; boomerangs; computer games; pukings on my shoulder; and so much more that it makes my heart want to explode. With my baby boy turning seventeen this week, I can see that this chapter of my life coming to an end.

With my baby twenty years younger than his oldest sibling, his family life looks so much different than the others. There were so many celebrations, so many family reading times, so much family history that he missed. We are continually amazed at his “I haven’t seen that movie” statements when we are quoting from family favorites. He sits outside of a lot of the family memories. My wife has stated that she worries he is lonely. She is thinking of the days in our small home with his seven siblings romping, arguing, and playing together. Now, except for our baby, the house is devoid of children. She sees our baby sitting in the family room, alone, on his computer—how can she help but come to that conclusion.

I know differently. Our baby is very much engaged with his older siblings. Technology has made all the difference. He’s always chatting with siblings on the family Telegram channel. He is not only involved in computer gaming with his siblings, but also the leader in some games. None of his older brothers who, by the way, have been gaming decades longer than him, can touch him in Overwatch or Valorance. I often hear his delightful peal of laughter as he chats on Discord with his brothers while battling away with his team. Our baby has the house to himself to use his time as he wishes while often being invited to spend weekends with his brothers and sisters. No, he is not lonely.

But I’m feeling a little lonely thinking of my baby leaving home in a year.

I remember doing the calculations when my baby was born. I raised my eyebrows when I realized I would be sixty-two years old before my youngest was out of the house. I pictured myself a white-haired old man getting around with a cane by the time my baby graduated high school. I hoped my baby wouldn’t be embarrassed at having such an old father at his high school graduation. The future has arrived. I turn sixty-one this year. It turns out that my hair is still naturally black and instead of a cane, we were out throwing boomerangs the other day in the back field. He doesn’t seem embarrassed by me. I’m glad.

I remember talking with a man at a barbershop years ago. He told me of his last baby who came unexpectedly. He said the late child turned out to be a gift. I understand what he means now. This final child—my baby—is a gift with a bow. He is, of course, a teenager with all the accompanying moods, but he helps me with the yard, he carries in wood for the fire, he throws boomerangs with me, he edits my Youtube videos for me, we watch movies together, and we sit side by side playing computer games. I love him no more than my other children, but the fact that he is the last child at home giving me that energetic, youthful, company gives my experience with him added meaning.

Next year, when my baby leaves for college, it will end thirty-eight years of children in the home. There’s a peculiar kind of silence that occurs the moment a symphony orchestra ends its final movement. The silence itself rings in the air. I’m hearing premonitions of that silence already. I have to remind myself that the silence isn’t bad, especially if the music that led to it was great. My baby is a fine finale to one fantastic concert.

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