I was 7 when Robbie was born. It was the end of July, hot, and the four of us were excited to have the baby come home. But, for a while, he didn't.
I still remember Mom trying to help me understand "A-B-O incompatibility." I was confused as to how they could take all the blood out of a little baby and put new blood in and then be sure that he was ok. The day she and Dad finally brought him home we were all down in the split-level living room of our house on Ash Circle. Mom held Robbie close as she carefully pulled back the light blanket from his face. We started to rush up the stairs, but Dad stopped us. "No, no, not yet. Mommy and Robbie need to rest." We didn't see that baby for a week. I was terrified that he might die - in fact Dad had told me as much when he didn't come home from the hospital right away. When I finally got to hold him, I decided he was "mine."
Of course, that would never be the case. He was - and is - the most independent of souls. I loved to take care of him - he was as full of energy as I was. He would run, play tag, climb on stuff, throw things, and laugh really loud for as long as I did. He had an inner sense of adventure that pushed him along - and made him an eager companion to his older brothers. He was always ready to implement the plan - as long as there was a feeling of either danger or accomplishment - the bigger the better.
My favorite time with Robbie was nap time. Then, I really did have him all to myself. I'd lie on the bed beside his little self and sing songs. Not the lovely lullabies you might expect - oh no. I'd sing about a ghost-girl named Lorrie who came back from the dead to get her sweater. I'd sing about catching brass rings on the merry-go-round, and about a secret place I knew where no one ever goes. By the fourth song, he was asleep. Always the same songs, always the same order.
Things were hectic at our house in those days - 5 rambunctious children in 7 years. We had moved from Utah to California just after Rob was born. Our house in Downey - about 1500 square feet - was full to the brim. We were constantly up and down the street, pushing Robbie in the stroller or giving him a ride on the trike - never a dull moment.
On Sundays, I loved to take him to the "cry room" at church. It was a terrific room where he could crawl around and I could play. Neither he nor I were very good at sitting still and listening, so this was a good option for us. It let Mom and Dad sit with the quiet ones and enjoy the service, and it let Robbie and me not have to "be good" for a while. If we got too loud, Mom would come in and make us go back into the chapel, so it was always a little tricky to have just enough fun without being found out.
Rob still has a strong sense of adventure - just last year he rode his motorcycle to the Arctic Ocean all alone. He took the Dalton Highway. Alone. On a motorcycle. Stood in the Arctic Ocean. He's not exactly fearless - just well prepared. And he doesn't let "life" dictate what he does - he makes his own decisions his own way. Maybe it's because he almost didn't make it to our front door as a baby. Maybe it's because he has different blood. Maybe it's because he's Number 5. I've always been glad that my folks didn't stop at 4. Think what we would've missed.
