LESSON #8: Being supportive requires interactive participation

The family attends Jason's first professional game.

At 65, my father cannot get enough of talent competitions shows. ‘The Voice’, ‘X-Factor’, ‘Australia’s Got Talent’, ‘American Idol’… name it, and chances are he’s already asked my brother Shawn to season-pass the series for him. On any given night of the week, the hallways of my parents’ home are filled with the desperate sounds of young wanna-be pop stars. As soon as the show starts, my father is immediate transfixed… he enters an unbreakable trance, his eyes lit with wonder. I have no doubt that, if the house erupted in flames, he’d wait until the commercial break to evacuate the building.

It’s impossible to imagine a bigger fan than my father. Where others may laugh along at the appropriate moments, cry on cue after an emotional rendition of ‘My Heart Will go On’, or sit on the edge of their seats during the climatic moments of an elimination… my father will literally give a standing ovation for a well-enthused vocal performance. Right there in the living room.

“Dad… you don’t have to stand and clap. She can’t see you.”

“Nah… nah…” he’d say, batting away the emotions “what she just did… she deserves this. That was amazing.”

“But this isn’t live. It was taped 14 hours ago in LA.” I’d rebut, as I would inevitably stand and clap with him.

You see, for my father, being supportive has always been an interactive exercise.

LESSON #7: Try not to Run and Panic

When I was a kid living in Montreal, what you wore at Halloween was serious business. In fact, just a slight orange or yellow tinge on a single leaf would spark the start of my annual costume obsession. I’d spend weeks imagining my perfect get-up, days talking about it at school, and hours trying to talk my parents into buying exactly what I wanted. 

The Scream Mask Shawn bought in the 90's

My mother often opted to hand-sew our outfits, which I hated. All I wanted was the same store-bought ensembles my friends had, but in my mother’s eyes, mass production just wasn’t good enough for her children. She also had the same opinion when it came to candy – look! Home-made peanut butter cups! Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies! – which is where we drew a firm line. Our friends deserved real candy… the store bought kind made with 4 different types of sucrose and 6 different kinds of additives.

The only hand made item I proudly endorsed was my trick-or-treat bag. Unlike other kids, I learned very early on that a novelty pumpkin basket or plastic Halloween bag wasn’t going to suffice. If I had any hope in taking this trick-or-treat business seriously, I would need a double-woven cloth bag. Like a pillowcase. 

“Don’t! What are you doing? Lift, Tara, lift!” my dad would scream, as I’d drag my candy-laden pillowcase along the sidewalk. 

LESSON #6: Blending in and Belonging isn't the Same Thing

My family immigrated to Australia in late 1987 from Canada, with little knowledge about our soon-to-be surrounds. Without the Internet, social media, Skype and cheap airfares, the world seemed like a much bigger place in the 80’s. Though I had a fairly good idea of what existed beyond the great white maple syrup drenched lands of Canada, my geography was a little shaky. So when my mother told us we were moving to Australia, I immediately began to fantasise about strolling the streets of Vienna, listening to Mozart and eating an ungodly amount of Danishes. A European princess.

“No – Not Austria… Australia. Like in Crocodile Dundee.”

My mother’s correction cut through me like a knife. But THAT GUY didn’t know how to use an escalator. What kind of godforsaken country doesn’t have an escalator? I watched Crocodile Dundee over and over again, trying to make sense of the insanity. Time and time again, all I could deduce from the movie was that Australia had a lot of open space, was filled with crocodiles, populated by leathery old men and seriously lacked the presence of a decent shopping center. It was clear to me that my parents had lost their minds.

LESSON #5: I Have a 1980's TV Dad

I don’t need a Buzzfeed test to tell me that my father is a 1980’s TV dad.

The loving, caring, supportive yet goofy and fun father figure of every single 1980’s sitcom was what I thought all fathers were like. In my mind, those sugary scripted comedies might as well have been documentaries... that's how realistic that kind of father was to me.   

It took me a while to understand that my father was the exception, and not the norm. My friends often fantasized about being taken into the folds of the Huxtable household or adopted into the Seaver family, even for one day… just so they can experience a father like theirs. It was a yearning I never comprehended.... because, truth be told, I always thought my father could run paternal rings around Steven Keaton. In his sleep. No contest. 

LESSON #4: Sometimes What You BELIEVE to be Impossible is Simply Just Undiscovered

Shekinah with Midnight the black swan

It was clear when my sister Shekinah was born that five children was the maximum allowance for our family. Aside from any financial, emotional or physical strain an extra child might cause, two adults and five growing children were all that could fit in the Aucoin family Tarago. And we were not going to be one of those freakishly large families who travelled in a bus, or worse, in convoy. No siree. It was classier to just stop having children.

 

Growing up the eldest, I had heard stories of families who spoil the youngest. I made sure that wasn’t going to be the way our family worked. Instead, being the youngest Aucoin child was an experience akin to boot-camp… but not the fun exercisy type that’s trendy nowadays. It was more like a hard-core military training ground for becoming an effective older brother/sister. Not only were you expected to obey every command of those above you, but you were also blamed for any of their transgressions. It was a perfect system if you had younger, trusting siblings. I never imagined it was possible to be the youngest forever – none of us did. Even Ryan, the youngest for 6 whole years, had moved up the ranks to Lieutenant Commander, residing over his new Cadet sister. But that was all before my dad bought the Tarago.

LESSON #3: Crying is Sometimes the Preferred Alternative

L-R: Shawn, Minnie Mouse, Tara & Jason at Disney World

As adults, most of us have become experts in taking life’s small, unexpected turns in stride.Very few daily instances inspire a reaction bigger than a smile, a slight raise of an eyebrow or a small nod of the head. Not too happy and not overly sully… that’s the key. Being a responsible member of society demands that we be temperamentally just right for the Goldilocks around us.   

Children, on the other hand, aren’t expected to filter their emotions in the same way. This lack of adult mediocrity seems to give them carte blanche to unabashedly wear their emotions… not just on their sleeve, but on their entire body. When a 4 year old is happy, it envelops them. When they’re upset, you don’t have to coax it out of them. And when a child is either extraordinarily sad or extremely happy, it often creates a very physical reaction... emotions spilling out of their tiny bodies without warning, flooding their beings one feeling at a time.

As a child, I suffered from excitement-induced sore legs, which is not nearly as endearing as it sounds. The only remedy for my excruciating pain was to have my legs rubbed, sometimes for hours, until the pain (and tears) subsided. Unfortunately for my parents, I found nearly everything exciting – a change of seasons, first day of school, birthdays, Halloween, Easter. But nothing was as exciting as Christmas. If it were the New Millennium, I’m sure my parents would have simply given me a Valium in those weeks leading to Christmas morning. But it was the 80’s, decades before medicating children with drugs became the norm… so I wasn’t even given a Panadol. Instead, they’d lovingly spend hours each night taking turns rubbing my legs, hoping I’d somehow forget Christmas was around the corner.
 

Out of five children, I was the only one who suffered with excitement-induced sore legs.

LESSION #2: The Smallest Moments Can Make Us Feel Like the BRIGHTEST Stars

No one likes being pushed aside. Ignored. Neglected. Silenced. Especially a six year old. If nothing else, it’s deflating.

Being the eldest of five children, it was inevitable that I would eventually feel overlooked. When you’re the only child, you don’t bother questioning your position as center of your parents’ universe. You are fabulous. That poop you did by yourself? The most amazing poop anyone has ever done.

 

Though becoming a big sister was pitched to me as a positive life change, it didn’t take me long to realize that I was now pitted against someone newer, cuter and louder for a measly share of my parents’ time and attention. Like all first-borns the world over, I began to struggle with my new reality: I am no longer their Sun, the one they orbit around. I was demoted to “star”… one of many, all equally bright in my parents’ universe.

 

There’s a fallacy in society that it’s only battered old men and bitter old women who reminisce about years gone by, yearning for a simpler time. I felt that way at six. In my mind, all of life’s complications could be tracked back to this new sister-business. You see, I loved watching early morning cartoons with my brother Shawn, but I hated that he had an equal say in what we watched. And though I prized our family outings to the park on Saturday afternoons, I always felt cheated when we had to leave early because Jason had grown tired. Being an older sister was proving to be a double-edge sword indeed, and I yearned for a simpler time when it was all about me.