I married into a family so big the younger kids struggle to remember who their older cousins are.
I’m talking multiple-bunk-beds-and-a-bus big. So big, in fact, get-togethers require food drops from catering companies and they’re frantic and never last long because the host has usually passed out in a corner somewhere from the sheer stress of getting everyone fed.
In a world where modern families are pretty much done and dusted once the second child arrives, more than three is considered too challenging plus you’ve got to get a people mover, and over six is likely to get you a story in a local paper, there’s still something to be said for the lost art of reproducing enough kids to make a football team.
Why? Because it is, without a shadow of doubt, more fun.
Our little unit of two adults and two kids just seems undercooked in comparison. Intense and, well, I’d never say peaceful but, in an empty room, we echo. Next week the eldest is going to camp and it will be down to three, which is just weird.
My own family of origin is also relatively small and everyone is spread all over the country, which makes our get-togethers intense and focused around a table. We actually need to speak to each other.
Not on the other side, though. For a start, no one has enough tables. Which means you can spread yourself thin if you want and move around a room without really saying anything to anyone. But you can also have an enlightening conversation with an 18-year-old about cake and a two-year-old about their life plans.
It wasn’t always so gleeful. I’m sure my mother-in-law had days when she wondered just how she’d get everything done with a brood of 11. But these days, now they’re all grown up and out of the house, there’s always someone to help out or to force-feed tea and Anzac biscuits.
I swear you could hear the roar of her laughter from your house when I say something silly like, “Oh it’s so hard sometimes trying to feed two small children”, or I complain about how much washing there is to get through with a family of four. She is a master of getting things done, a miracle worker, a true and much-loved matriarch who still has hugs for everyone.
This is a massive generalisation, but I’ve found that most people who come from big families are funny. I don’t know why, but I’m guessing you need a sense of humour to get by, or be heard, or to fly under the radar, or to amuse each other because there had to be heaps less parental supervision.
So you were free to create your own fun and invent stuff – like seeing who could spit the furthest from the top bunk when you were all meant to be sleeping, for example.
For those of us at the difficult stage that involves simultaneously caring for school-age children and ageing parents, being part of a bigger collective seems to make more sense.
I’ve just had a conversation with a friend who is an only child, who would do anything to have a sibling to share the load and the emotional roller coaster that comes with caring for sick and elderly parents.
Apparently we do not make houses and cars big enough for large families any more but I, for one, am pleased it never stopped them before.
