The ringing bell had the same effect as a break horn blowing in an industrial factory. Doors would slowly open along the corridor, and disheveled bodies stumbled out. At our house, 6:30 p.m. was dinner time. I can't remember when the bell was introduced, but it proved the most effective way to call five young teenagers down to the kitchen to eat.

Despite regularly being called the Brady Bunch when out in public (particularly when in a line on moving escalators), five kids is actually quite a convenient number. Five weekdays were perfect for each person to have an allocated day for duties: to cook, to walk the dog, even to sit in the front seat of the car (an honor every teenager in the early 00s fought for).

I'm the youngest, and so my day was Friday, which was a clear injustice because I was convinced I had to wait longer than everyone else.

We all had a job to do

Five children and two adults meant eating dinner was "feeding time at the zoo," according to my dad. Yes, there was a one-serving-only policy in place, and messy plates were inevitable, but once we finished eating, we became a well-oiled machine. Someone collected the dirty dishes, someone washed up, someone dried, someone put items away, and someone cleaned the table.

I remember an adult family friend joining us for dinner one evening, their eyes widening as we all stood in sync to start our jobs, rolled up our sleeves, and discussed the unfair compensation.

We'd mumble that one day we'd form a union.

Birthdays had a similar efficiency. In the morning, the person celebrating would have breakfast, then wait patiently in the lounge while we all mysteriously disappeared upstairs. In hushed tones, resentful about the gifts we weren't getting, a parent would hand each of us a present to carry. We'd then queue up in age order and slowly descend the stairs singing happy birthday in different pitches, the person in the lounge overacting their surprise as we finally came into view.

Christmas was another meticulous affair. We'd watch as a parent burrowed through piles of presents, handing each of us one and instructing us not to open it until everyone had theirs. We'd then unwrap our assigned gifts one by one in front of the family, acknowledging who they were from and muttering well-rehearsed "thank yous". The rounds were strategically ordered so the "main" gift would be handed over last, and so, throughout the event, we kids would keep one eye on the remaining presents, processing by elimination to see if what was left could be what we'd asked for.

There were processes and workflows

We were a family, but we were also an organization. The sheer mass of us turned basic processes into workflows. If I'd been born today, I think my parents may have developed data-tracking tools and KPIs to report to board members (my grandparents) to optimize family dynamics and returns.

My dad once told me a story about when he took us five children for a dog walk with his friend. Two of us were in the stroller, one was walking beside him, and each adult had a child strapped to their front. A golden retriever and cocker spaniel floated through the crowd of bodies. Two people passed them in the street and my dad overheard one whisper to the other "They even had dogs".

I loved the comedy our family attracted; it was like starring in a sitcom. Things that seemed mundanely routine to us always amused outsiders. The ordeal of buying clothes got particular interest. We'd be taken into town, given a budget, a time limit, and pen and paper, and we'd be set free to go to the shops. When we found an item we liked, we'd have to write down what it was and how much it cost. When our time was up, we'd rush back to the meeting spot and have to present our cases to the bank of Dad.

Having such a big family felt like being both anonymous and constantly noticed. Our internal structures made the busyness of life smoother, if you complied with them. Being out in public felt exposing: we suddenly weren't a well-oiled machine but a large, disruptive force interrupting paths and restaurants. Our chaos was more real when we were off shift in the real world.

It took a while to appreciate the ways our big family moved — I assumed other families were more fun and had more space. But as an adult, I miss the proximity those systems gave us. We were colleagues, teammates, and citizens of a (not-so-little) island nation, constantly striving for a decent GDP and a sense of peace.

I definitely had my protests and times of exile, but ultimately, I learned to share; I developed an idea of fairness; I had to be patient; and I got really good at drying the china.