I have never considered, “Oh I can totally tell you’re an only child,” a compliment. And yet I hear it fairly often. I don’t know what it is about me that makes it so obvious that I don’t have siblings, but the stereotypes make it clear that it’s not really a good thing. My first thought when hearing this is to wonder when this person started thinking I was selfish, self-centered, or unable to work with others. I’d like to think I’m not those things, but apparently something about me gives away the fact that I am an only child.
At eight years old I went to camp. I had to beg my parents to let me spend just three weeks in Vermont, and I was jittery with excitement in the weeks leading up to the beginning. Arriving on opening day, I met my counselor and two tent-mates, neither of whom had been to camp before either. We moved into the eleven-by-eleven wood platform tent set on top of a rock that would be our home for half of the summer. Each camper got a cot and a shelf and brought her own trunk to put clothes in. That summer and the six after it, I lived in extremely close quarters with girls I usually didn’t know very well at the beginning of the summer.
I was never homesick. In fact, after getting picked up that first summer, I cried in the middle of a grocery store because I wanted to go back to my friends on the shores of Lake Fairlee. I’m in no way saying this is like having a sibling, but I clung to the hope that maybe my coexisting in this way with such ease somehow disproved the theory that only children didn’t get along with others and couldn’t share possessions or space.
One summer I lived with a girl who had serious attitude issues. She would kick and scream when she had to put shoes on in the morning, refused to shower or make her bed, and was noisy when we were supposed to be quiet. One day during our designated “rest hour” (glorified nap time), it began to rain, and one tent-mate lowered the cover on the window of our shack to keep her bed from getting wet. The second this happened, the girl began screaming that she had wanted to lower the window. The ordeal lasted for the rest of the hour, and while we went back to activities, she spent the next couple days in an extended time-out in the nurse’s house. I left that afternoon thinking something along the lines of, Wow I hate her, I’m so unlucky to have a tent-mate like her... Why me. Girls from the tents around us had heard the commotion and asked us what had happened. I was hesitant because I’d always been taught that it was bad form to speak poorly of family. Being nine, I gave in and regaled my friends with how crazy the girl had acted. But for a split second I felt a little protective of my tent family.
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When I was little, I desperately wanted a brother or sister. I didn’t think it was fair that while all my friends had built-in playmates at home, I had to make my own fun or beg my dad to play catch outside. I was lonely.
I would go over to friends’ houses and wonder why they didn’t want little siblings around.I had one friend in particular with three little siblings who lived right down the street from me. I spent countless hours at their house playing in the snow and in their pool, watching the Super Bowl, and staying up way past our bedtime to watch TV and eat popcorn. I can remember multiple times when we’d be hanging out in her room and a brother or sister would barge in only to be thrown out in a matter of seconds. I’d watch with amusement and maybe a little bit of pity. But I would often join them downstairs for hide-and-seek, or outside tossing a ball around when my friend went to use the bathroom or got distracted by something else.
That house was always noisy and stimulating, and when I got home, the silence was noticeable and jarring. I wasn’t disappointed at the quiet, but I was acutely aware of our difference in lifestyles and questions nagged at the back of my mind. Would I be different if I had a brother or sister? How so? Was I completely missing out or was I lucky?
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As I grew older, I wished less and less for a sibling. When we moved and renovated a new house, we made frequent trips to kitchen and bath stores where I, as an only child, had the privilege of making some decisions. As I picked out a fancy, impractical faucet for my bathroom, I thought maybe I wouldn’t be able to make that choice if I weren’t the only one who would be using it. So maybe I am a little self-centered.
Increasingly, I talked to friends on the phone and spent time playing sports and doing after-school activities. My parents made it a point to try and be as flexible as possible and didn’t mind driving to friends’ houses no matter how far. I was pointedly aware that friends with siblings didn’t have the same privilege and were often stuck at home while a sister had a dance recital or a brother had football practice.
This change in attitude wasn’t rapid – I noticed it over a period of years. I seesawed back and forth, struggling with my loneliness and selfishness. Did I want someone else around with whom I could share that special sibling bond? Or would I be shoveled to the side if a younger brother or sister were in the picture? With age came comfort in being alone sometimes; I valued the peace and solitude that I was allowed as the only teenager in a house of three quiet people.
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People assume that only children like being the center of attention. Well I don’t. I really don’t like it. I’m extremely lucky to have parents who are willing to do whatever they can for me; however, that means I have people paying attention to me 24/7.
This constant attention is something I’ve thought a lot about as I prepare to leave for college. I’m excited to move to a new city, make new friends, and live an adult life. But I worry that I’m not responsible enough, not ready to truly be on my own yet. My whole life, I’ve had two caring, experienced parents who are willing to be a built in “How to adult” Google. When I leave home, I’ll have to truly fend for myself for the first time. I’ve had a weird combination of being both the youngest child and the oldest child. I have to pave the way because my parents don’t have specific experience yet either, but I’m also babied. I’m simultaneously the oldest and youngest. I bounce back and forth between wanting to be coddled and wanting to be left alone. Having all the attention on me can start to feel like too much, but when it’s gone, will I miss it? Or will the freedom be truly liberating?