Fourth Child. Second Hand.

I stood at the top of the stairs and watched the chaos spill out in front of me. My family moved frantically from room to room, slamming doors and striking an uncanny resemblance to the McCallister family from Home Alone. Our annual summer vacation to the glamorous state of Minnesota had finally come around, as did the race against our estimated time of departure. As my brother hurriedly packed his toiletries, he took advantage of his authority and sent me to the basement to bring him a Fresca. Ever since my two legs could walk, I became the designated refreshment fetcher. My seven-year old self slavishly obeyed. I was the youngest - a helping hand. The second hand.  

I scurried up the cold and concrete basement stairs with my brother’s soda in hand. Once I entered my room to finish packing, I noticed my luggage appeared more bulky than I had originally left it, full of unfamiliar items. Laying on top of my Scooby Doo pajamas were a bag of Bobbie Brown Cosmetics and a colorful pile of bras. Definitely not mine. Just when my confusion reached its peak, my sister strutted into my room with her hair in a towel. She asked if she could use the extra space in my suitcase. I obliged. I am, after all, the second hand.

Only two hours behind schedule (compared to the usual three), my family finally began our expedition to the Land of 10,000 Lakes. We assembled our suitcases in the luggage carrier, and climbed aboard “Big Red.” My two eldest siblings sat comfortably in the middle seats, while my sister and I habitually made our way to the back row. We mutually agreed to an unspoken seating chart, in which age determined our fate for the next thirteen hours in the Chrysler mini van - which for me included motion sickness and unequal AC distribution. This bad luck pressed on, and before we even made it to the end of the neighborhood, my back seat buddy placed her calloused foot upon my lap. “Foot massage?” I had no choice. I was the second hand.