When you derive from a big Jack-Catholic family—prime breeding ground for, you know, children—surviving and thriving in the family unit becomes a numbers game. As the firstborn of six, and with apologies to my siblings who think they alone put the sacred glow of adoration into Our Father Who Art in Florida, my coveted number-one spot in the birth order makes me Forever #1, and therefore Dad’s Favorite.
Oh, the wars have long raged about the crosses I have borne which make me, shall we say, unsuitable for the #1 position. And my siblings, in their lesser positions, have through the decades made feeble attempts to knock me from my glorious pedestal.
My little brother Chris, for instance, liked to act weak and innocent to garner my parents’ favor; and once or twice, I admit, my mother who is too enamored by underdogs did succumb to his trickery. But not my father. No, our wise and intelligent patriarch could not be fooled, and I retained my revered esteem. Naturally.
My youngest sister was infamous for trying to usurp my position. Look at our vivacious Dee, who is very sadly no longer with us, who once defaced her photos with this inscription:
Pffft!
Then there are the middle two brothers, Jody and Steve, who struggle in vain to be taken seriously against my superior rank in the genealogical hierarchy. Laughable, really. All that cute boy stuff they did, like serenading Dad with the yuletide favorite, “Ooooooh, bring us the piggy pudding,” or tacking “Faaaaarrrt” to the end of the Popeye song, does not engender supremacy. Nay, nay.
The only one who could actually be considered competition is my middle sister Eryn, who consistently pulls my father’s attentions because of some underhanded Shirley Temple “Captain January” schtick they have going (“I love you, Cap!” “I love you, Star!”). Pffft. Please. As if such sweet asides and affection could de-throne my first-childedness.
Why, I remember when my inimitable pops overheard me call him a prick because he wouldn’t let me spend the night with a friend; caught me ditching seventh period for, oh, a semester; discovered I’d turncoated to liberal politics and prayed at the feet of Jon Stewart; and more recently recoiled in horror as I dissed his beloved Faux News—all of which should have placed my life in mortal peril. But did not.
Pffft. Dad with Fave Impostor #1.
Yes, we all think we are the sweetest apples of my Dad’s eye, but it’s clear I can do no wrong. Or, more precisely, even if Dad thinks I’ve done a shit ton of wrong, my reign as #1 seed remains intact. Still, my siblings enjoy fabricating cases for their number oneness, and try as they might, they fail to convince the world that I am not Dad’s Favorite.
Right, Dad?
Dad?
Okay, well, happy Dad’s Day to the guy who always makes me feel like I’m #1.
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