Six is enough

Sometimes, my sisters bring home half-empty suitcases.
“We’ll just borrow Colleen’s,” they say, reaching for my favorite pink peacoat, my nice, brown, high-heeled boots or my comfortable, gray yoga pants.
I suppose, being the youngest of six, I should be expected to share. But I need to draw the line at my toothbrush.
I have grown up accustomed to large groups of people. There are eight in my immediate family. My father has six brothers who collectively have a total of 14 kids.  And my mother has three sisters and five brothers, with a total of 18 kids.
So, with 25 aunts and uncles and 32 first cousins, I’m no stranger to packed houses, cramped sleeping arrangements, and huge family gatherings for any reason to celebrate.
I was 11 when I realized that not everyone’s family reunions were loud and crazy. I remember being astounded when my friend told me she had two cousins.
“No, I mean, how many cousins?” I repeated, thinking that, of course, she thought I had meant siblings. I was so used to being in my large family that I simply couldn’t put my mind around life without that.
Living with six kids in the house was never easy, though. It was hard on my parents, who — living on the wage of a youth minister — tried to keep us healthy and happy.
And it was hard on us, at times, too — privacy being a thing only found in the bathroom. (And even then it was limited.)
At one point, with my older siblings being so close in age, there were four teenagers in the household. And that definitely provided an interesting dynamic to our daily lives.
We had to become masters at sharing and compromising, and I realized at a very young age that if I had something yummy in the fridge for me I had better put my name on it or it would be gone within the hour.
Thinking back, though, I wouldn’t trade my childhood for anything. Having six kids in the house meant we were all set for games of any kind. Baseball and kick-the-can were two of our favorites.
It also meant I never lacked a teacher, a friend, or a shoulder to cry on. Growing up with my siblings has been the most incredible experience of my life. When our grandpa died, we all sat together, holding each other, supporting each other. My first breakup was eased by the comforting words of my sisters. And my first college acceptance letter was celebrated proudly among them all. My siblings have an amazing talent for loving me.
I blame my rambunctious family for who I am today. It is their fault I love holidays for the sole purpose of seeing them. It’s their fault I have so many birthdays to keep track of. And it is especially their fault that every teacher at Davis High School “knew” me long before I got there.
Growing up an only child isn’t something you get to decide. But if it was, I never would have chosen it. Life without my brothers and sisters would have meant facing the world incompletely. As I’ve grown and changed, a bit of myself has merged with them.
This year, my senior year, I’m steadily readying myself to go off to college. However, the prospect doesn’t seem as intimidating after having watched five others go successfully before me. Once again, my siblings are the support and encouragement I rely on in everything I do. They are my own personal cheering section.
I doubt I will ever find another group of individuals who know me better or love me more.
I doubt there will ever be a need to.

— Colleen Fontana is a senior at Davis High School and a member of the Herald-Republic’s Unleashed journalism program for students.