The Perils of Onliness

It’s always the same when someone first learns I am an only child. They nod knowingly, “Ohhh…the little princess!” they’ll comment, eyes narrowed, head bobbing in a slow knowing nod, readjusting their idea of who I am in an instant. Someone said those exact words, in fact, to me just yesterday.

Those with siblings (or the majority of everybody) have this idea about the vast rewards of only-childhood.

And, I won’t lie; only childhood had its privileges. Yes, all those gifts under the tree were pretty much JUST for me. No snot-nosed younger sibling ever read my diary; no older sister or brother enjoyed freedoms I was not yet allowed to taste. No one ratted me out that time I dropped and broke in two the lid of my Mom’s favorite cut-class candy jar and quick glued it back together with super glue. There was no other skater in the basement rink to disrupt my smooth gliding. The family cat, first "Fairy" and then "Brandi", was in disputably mine alone.

There was no retribution for Tommy Wilkerson from my older brother or sister after Tommy blacked my eye on the school bus.

Actually, I'm surprised that, in my late (sob!) forties, people are still adjusting their opinions of who I am based on my lack of birth order status. I mean, seriously, it's been a few years since the first emerging jiggly jello traces of my personality hardened into the unmalleable concrete you see before you today. I can also assure you that Life has seldom, if ever, afforded me any special consideration in light of my delicate only-child condition.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

Ladies and gentlemen I submit to you that there are advantages to putting up with a sibling suddenly and without warning...say...whacking you upside the head for no particular reason at all. There's a lesson there. An important life lesson. And that lesson is:

LIFE AIN'T FAIR. GET USED TO IT.

Those of us without the benefit of that sassy or annoying sibling, people like myself, had to take a much more circuitous and arguably more painful route to this simple truth. Spending the vast majority of my first five years in a suburban bubble with no one, for the most part, but my mother and father in my cast of characters does not exactly prepare one for the big, bad world.

Oh, sure, I had neighborhood friends, kids that would ride their trikes over and hang out in the driveway with me (because I couldn't leave my driveway--serial killers, you know) and cheerfully put up with me deciding what to play today and bossing them around.

Could I help it if I was the the only one with any ideas?

There was of course my imaginary friend. "Puddin'", as I inexplicably named him, was a boy of about, I'd guess, twelve years old in contrast to my own 2 to 4-year-old self. He had thick brown hair parted on the side and wore a light brown suit, white shirt and chocolate colored tie. I could see him most clearly in the mirror standing beside and a little behind me. I don't remember him ever talking to me; he was a supportive, if silent, presence. He watched me play and smiled a wistful smile as he sat nearby, his palms on his thighs as if in a pose of just pre-or post-movement, like maybe he enjoyed being there but wished he could be more of an active participant.

But, no, for the most part it was just me. Or me and my Mom. Dad was mostly off at work smoking Winstons and punching an adding machine. (I occasionally had to make an appearance at his office and recite the "Pledge of Allegiance" for the entertainment of his co-workers. This I did very quickly with one hand over my heart. I mean, everybody that watched Romper Room knows The Pledge. Jeez.)

Chief among the major injustices of my first five years of life: leotards. For some reason my mother was COMPLETELY OBSESSED that every dress should have a matching pair of leotards. Leotards that pinched, twisted, never completely conformed to my feet and eternally had a crotch floating somewhere between my actual crotch and my knees limiting my movement and annoying the holy living hell out of me each and every second I had to endure the getup.

A secondary but no less annoying insult: cottage cheese. I was eternally trapped at the dinner table until I finished my cottage cheese. An even worse side dish, Lima beans, was foisted on me similarly but, mercifully, less often. So, yes, on a REALLY BAD day, worst case scenario, I could be found wearing leotards and eating Lima beans.

Don't get me wrong. It wasn't all Lima beans and leotards.

There was danger, too. Mostly this came in the form of The Public Restroom.

No space in my young life posed more of a threat to my health and human safety than a public toilet. I still remember the look of fear that would come over my mother's face when I would have a call of nature in a public place. She would blanch, become suddenly solemn, bend over and whisper,

"Are you sure it can't wait?"

Well...no. I generally didn't bother to take time out to mention these things unless it was a full-on emergency. The worst of all situations was the GAS STATION Public Restroom. A visit to these hellish pits of doom would require an actual pep talk before we entered.

"Okay, Suzanne, now remember...don't touch anything, okay?"

I'd nod. (It was as if we were preparing for battle. If I'd been a real soldier the vibe would have been, "Okay, boys, smoke 'em of you got 'em!)

At this point my mother would go completely commando, scooping me up so the bottoms of my shoes would not actually make contact with the germ-covered floor. With me thus secured, she, herself, would tiptoe in (no small feat, now that I think about it). I'll leave the rest to your imagination except to say I was expected to perform very, very quickly in that situation (not always what comes naturally) in order that we might, by hurrying, somehow not awaken the invisible bio hazard ghoul--it always smelled like a zoo--that stalked us breathing the foul breath of death down our vulnerable Dove-scented necks every second we remained in Public Toilet Jeopardy.

So, yes, it was this crystalline bubble (listen to the soundtrack here) that the aforementioned furious balled up fist of Tommy Wilkerson would shatter that day on the school bus in 1968 leaving me with my very first black eye and a question that would would echo, in one form or fashion, on my lips for years afterward....

Why?

But....why would Tommy Wilkerson punch me in the face? But why isn't Tommy Wilkerson nice? Isn't everybody supposed to be nice? Isn't hitting against the rules? Why isn't Tommy Wilkerson following the rules?

It made no sense to me. I mean I really, truly didn't get it. The stuff just didn't happen in my world. In my world? If you were good at the doctor's office you got a coloring book. These things could be predicted, counted on. One could not venture beyond the edge of the driveway. And so ONE DIDN'T.

One did not randomly get punched in the face.

I still remember my mother trying to formulate an answer to the question,

"But WHY would Tommy Wilkerson punch me in the face?"

She'd say, "Because he's not nice."

I'd ask, "But WHY isn't he nice? Why does he want to be mean?"

She'd say, "Some people just aren't nice."

Which would lead me, once again, right back where I started,

"Not nice? But...WHY?"

Of course we all know the end of this story. The woods are full of Tommy Wilkersons. I can't help but believe that, somehow, the day-to-day give and take of dealing with a sibling would have left me better prepared to deal with this fundamental truth. Less...surprised with each and every new black eye dealt by the hand of fate. More able to quickly shake off the setbacks caused by the Tommys of the world and better able to refocus on the task at hand.

As it was, it took rather longer than I think it should have for me to get past the learning curve of the basic WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH EVERYBODY question. But, get past it I did. I've even taken on a few Tommys over the years. Tommys that, let's just say? Are a little worse for the wear.

Yep, I am practically shock-proof at this point.

But, still. If I'm honest? Even now, I have to admit to not always being able to shake the question. Can't always stop pondering where it all might have gone wrong and just what it is that prevents us all from getting along...

(Why?)

Me one happy leotard-free day in nineteen sixty-something. I am instead thrilled to be wearing what I then referred to as my, "Ellie May Clampett" shorts--not only are they cool denim cut-offs, but they also had a rope belt that is covered by my shirt. Come to think of it, this is STILL my outfit of choice.