First post by the Brother!

Krazy Tuesday's with Katie is in Hawaii (be jealous...we all are!) So J.B. our one and only brother wrote a post in her place....

I’ve been waiting for my chance to explain what it meant to grow up with seven sisters (now we’re really talking about sagas)

It meant a Christmas when all of the girls got Barbie dolls—and I got a Ken doll.  But Ken was only my main present from Santa, and there were a lot of other presents under the tree from Mom and Dad.  Those other presents?  Pieces of furniture for Ken’s bachelor pad.  On the bright side, though, I doubt any Ken ever had more dates than mine did.  Ken’s social life was a lot like this blog: a date with a different Barbie every day of the week  . . .

It meant standing at attention at every Boy Scout Court of Honor and praying that I didn’t recite the Young Women’s theme by accident.  “We are daughters . . . [cough, cough] . . . who are trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly,  . . .”

It meant learning the hard way that no woman older than six considers the adjective “big” to be a compliment.  Tall? Fine.  Big? Prepare to have your eyes scratched out . . .

It meant enduring that one-of-a-kind smell of home perms.  It also meant that one-of-a-kind smell came seven-at-a-time.  I still have a hard time believing that do-it-yourself perms escaped federal regulation in the 1980s.  However, in this current era of heightened awareness of weapons of mass destruction, I’m hoping that government officials have enacted measures to make sure perm chemicals do not end up in the wrong hands.   Still, if it wouldn’t have been for the popularity of home perms, we would have missed what is possibly my favorite hair-do of all time.  We affectionately call it the “buffalo head.”  I will make sure that one of my sisters posts a picture . . .

It meant watching a lot of softball games (while also watching the younger girls since my mom was most often the coach).  But hey, the only thing better than the buffalo head was the buffalo head resisting all efforts to be corralled inside of a batting helmet . . .

It meant occasional insecurities about proving my manhood.  Under encouragement from my sister Katie, I planned to ask the beautiful and talented Laura Favero on a date.  When my dad got wind of my plan, he asked me, in front of my sisters at family night, if I had called her yet.  When I said, “Not yet, but I will,” he took the cordless phone, threw it to me, and said—and this is absolutely true—“Are you a man or aren’t you?”  Just to settle that question once and for all, I marched downstairs where my sisters wouldn’t be watching me, dialed Laura’s number—and then hung up after the first ring.  But after my hyperventilation slowed a little, I hit redial and asked her on a date.  She is now my wife.  “Are you a man or aren’t you?”  Ha!—I even held Laura’s hand on like our seventh date.  How’s that for manliness?!   So what if I was trembling . . . a little . . .

But growing up with seven sisters also meant that I was even introduced to my beautiful and talented Laura in the first place.  She was my sister Katie’s teammate and classmate and best friend when I came home from serving a mission.  A person of Laura’s caliber was bound to be Katie’s friend because Katie is of that caliber, too.  My gratitude for that will go on forever. 

It also meant that I have had the support of seven visionaries—they can see things in others, in me, that often we can’t see in ourselves.  They make me want to reach higher, be better.

It also meant that I have benefited from the example of seven super-compassionate women.  I have seen firsthand over and over again that aspect of the divine nature that is the unique province of women.  Charity never faileth, and it has never failed my sisters.

It also has meant that I have laughed and cried harder than I think I would have in another family setting—and I count those moments as the mile markers along memory lane, the highlights of my growing up years.

I LOVE MY SISTERS!  The things I have learned from them and the strong feelings I have for them can’t really be summed up as “life lessons times seven,” or “love times seven.”  It feels more like “seventy times seven.”  They are just that good. 

For me, seven really has been the lucky number.

-J.B.