KP

Those of you who know me know I have the cleanest mouth of anyone around and that I abhor and am greatly offended by any and all kinds of swearing and profanity.  That being said, I must say that KP is a badass.  Oops, there...I said a bad word, now you know how serious this is.
Not that any of my siblings are slouches in the muscle-y, don't want to mess with me or my family, 'oh yeah you and what army?' department but KP, well...he just has his own special brand of badass-ness.  Whoops, there I go again.
While there were definitely times where the 'bad' part of that phrase was a bit more influential in his life he has always been, and still is, a really nice guy.  And not the kind of nice guy that you say is a nice guy because he's ugly or has a back that's so hairy it creeps up his neck and into the hair on his head, but you really want your friend to date him so you tell her he's a nice guy kind of nice guy.  He really is just a friendly, down-to-earth, no frills kinda guy.  
Before I get to my very interesting point about this particular sibling of mine, I'd like to point out that this kid started out as a big tough guy at 11 pounds, 7 ounces and he's rocking the tape measure at almost six-and-a-half feet with a couple hundred solid pounds riding in his Romeo's and Carhart's.  
And finally to my point:  he also has had more head injuries than anyone I know.  Which explains A LOT.  Seriously.  The answer to 'what the heck did he do that for?' can always be explained by this particular year.  I think he must have been four or five...six at the most (hey, I'm supposed to remember how old everyone was when they did everything?). 
This particular summer and fall KP had--count 'em--THREE different sets of stitches in his forehead from THREE completely separate incidences.
Incident #1: Running at my aunt and uncle's house up in Portland.  KP tripped and wham!  Really solid forehead meets really solid coffee table.  Whew, good thing my aunt was a nurse.  No biggie, little kids with long legs are bound to bang into things.
Incident #2: (and yes, I'm a mandatory reporter now but was not at the time of this incident...I still have no idea why he was where he was)  KP was on top of the cab of my grandfather's one-ton flatbed truck (my memory is a bit hazy as to whether or not the flatbed was moving) and somehow--I suspect Tony and/or Paddy may have been involved--KP took a header off the cab and landed on said head in the gravel driveway.  Yes, the insurance company denied this claim, thinking that we were attempting to re-claim the first head incident to get more money.  If they only knew.
Incident #3: We were in the waiting room at the doctor's office, I believe we were there for the twins' vaccinations, when KP, who was heading over to examine the really cool aquarium, trips just as the nurse opens the waiting room door and...well you know exactly what happens when a kid's head hits the corner of a moving door.  Doesn't matter how hard that head is, it's stitches.  I won't even tell you what the insurance company said about this third claim in less than six months for the same kid.

So there you have it.  KP the badass who has more head trauma than anyone I know.  In about a week you'll have your own son and I'm just not feeling evil enough today to say I hope he's just like you!

Paddy

Oh Paddy.  You were the easiest.  
To make fun of that is.  You just made it so darn, well...easy.  You were the easiest to gross out at the dinner table.
Random older sibling comment during dinner:
"Hey, look at this piece of chicken fat, it looks like snot."
Little blonde Paddy makes a dash for the bathroom, intent on kneeling before the porcelain god.
Us older siblings laugh despite dark looks of admonishment from the parent-types. 
Or:
"Hey look, this steak we're eating came from the cows out in that pasture...it's kind of weird that you can see them while you're eating them."
Little blonde Paddy of the weak stomach once again made a beeline for the facilities.  Poor kid.
Before you feel really bad for the little blonde tyke, let me just say that us older siblings grew a heart rather quickly where Paddy was concerned.  Because it was just so darn pathetic how easy it was to make him want to throw up.  And really who likes to hear puking while you're trying to eat (and who puts a bathroom that close to the dining room anyway)?  It's just gross.  Enough to turn your stomach even.  So we stopped making gross comparisons about our food during dinner.  Out loud anyway.  But every once in a while we'd pop one out there just to see if he was still weak-stomached.
Now that we're all much older and wiser I must say--even though Paddy hasn't exactly said it--he should be grateful for the the random bits of mealtime terror.  All those chances to practice his running skills.
Because now he's a stud. 
And by stud I mean that for the last five years--despite a few knee surgeries--he has been competing as a decathlete at the NAIA college level.
Decathletes are the studs of track and field teams.  They do 10 events in 2 days.  Most people do four.  He does: pole vault, high jump, long jump, javelin, shot put, discus, the 100, 400, 1500, and the high hurdles.  See?  Total stud.

I've never known anyone in my entire life who has worked harder or been more disciplined than Paddy when it comes to achieving a goal.  I'm so stinking proud of him. 
And this year he was the Cascade Conference Decathlon Champion, set a new record, and qualified and competed at Nationals in Indiana.  
Not bad for a little blonde farm kid with a weak stomach. 

Tony

I suppose the first thing to do is to share a story about each sibling.  And the only order to go in is from oldest to youngest.  Because the oldest should always get to go first.  Because we're the most important.  Unless it's something scary then us oldests retain the right to make the youngests go first.  And it's important for everyone to remember this.
One of my earliest favorite memories of Tony had to have been when he was about four years old.  But before we get to this energetic kid let me set the stage.
It was summer which meant bare feet on the farm and more free time than usual but less than we thought we deserved.  I was supposed to be weeding the garden but had taken a break under the auspices of 'watching Tony'--a phrase that could strike fear into the hearts of the most stalwart babysitters.  We wandered around the garden, with him tugging me from mid-thigh stalks to lush green bushes asking me to identify what each plant was.  Corn.  Beans.  Berries.  Beets.  Potatoes.  The kid had energy.
When finally we sat down in the shade of an apple tree--he proceeded to bash a couple trucks together--and after a few moments of that looked up and asked, "When do I turn into a girl?"
As a child myself of eight I was already absolutely confident that I knew more than my younger siblings combined and would always have the right answer for them.  But even I was befuddled.
"Um, what?  I asked.  
Tony stopped playing 'pile-up on I-5' and looked at me.  "You know...girl (he pointed at me), girl (he pointed at his other sister who was still in the garden).  How old will I be when I'm a girl?"
And then it hit me.  This poor kid with two older sisters just assumed that one day he would magically turn into a girl and be a sister too.
I laughed and called him silly.  "You won't ever turn into a girl.  You will stay a boy forever." I told him.  He looked quite skeptically at me as if I just didn't understand, then shrugged and went back to playing.  Look Tony, I was right--here you are almost twenty years later during Hell Week of Navy Seal training and you are most definitely still a boy!  And by the way?  Your eyes look a little freaky in this picture, not that I'm complaining because I know it was taking everything you had just to stay upright.  I'm just saying, that's all.

Forever and Ever

It dawned on me this summer.  

It was a sunny August evening and at first I was mostly relieved that the three birthday cakes I'd made weren't mushy lumps of sugar and cream cheese, no one was likely to get salmonella from the BBQ chicken, and that everyone was there, sitting on my deck.  And by everyone I mean my dad, my sister, my five brothers (with a smattering of girlfriends) and of course, my husband and me.  Yes we had to use two six-foot tables and yes, at some point in the near future I will have to invest in more silverware.  If everyone ever decides to bring a date to one meal I'd like to offer them real utensils.
It dawned on me that as we all get older (and as the oldest child I'm a bit more sensitive about this 'getting older' part), more mobile, and-gasp of horror-collect more responsibilities that it will be increasingly difficult for everyone to gather in one place at one time for one meal.  Even if it is for one hour.
But for today we were here celebrating three August birthdays, inhaling (with all of us around the table if you don't eat fast you might not eat) Caesar salad, tater tot casserole, buttery garlic bread, BBQ chicken, and freshly picked blackberries (thanks KP!) with the general chatter about upcoming fantasy football, school, camping trips, and the like exhausted, the talk turned, as it usually does, to favorite memories--both childhood and more recent.  

And that's when it dawned on me that I'm afraid.  I'm afraid that as time goes on and it's harder to gather everyone together that we might start to forget.  We might forget that one 5K fun run or that one Christmas morning from six years ago.  Therefore I, as the eldest and most responsible, am starting this blog for the seven siblings because even though I didn't birth you, you are very much mine and as new memories come and go, we will always have the old.
Forever and ever.