Sibling rivalry
I am an only child. I love being an only child, I have no regrets about it, and I have always been content not to have to share things like the back seat of the car, my toys, my red Mercury Bobcat, my Christmas gifts, or anything else with anyone else. People tell me I don’t ‘seem’ like an only child and I respond by sharing baby photos of myself and telling them all about how well-adjusted I am and I imagine they walk away realizing they spoke too soon.
Yesterday, I spent the afternoon with most of my husband’s family. He comes from one of those amazing families with an equal number of girls and boys who also have their own spouses and babies and pets. They get together and visit and splash around in the kiddie pool and and argue about whether or not to put onions in the fajitas and who was actually in the kitchen that time in the 1970s when there was a grease fire. I am always astounded by how different each of them is from all the others but how their senses of humor tend toward the same ridiculous puns. No matter what their image is at their jobs or with their buddies from college or the gym, and no matter how cool and together they are, there are at least five other people in the world who have seen them (ahem, him, because some of these people were boys) getting a permanent wave in the kitchen during the 80s, or know how one of them was thrown out of a swanky hotel because she followed Duran Duran a little too far down the hallway after the concert. Sometimes I imagine their parents look around and realize that they’ve created their own little colony of mini-mes and want to get on a cruise ship and sail far away from the madding crowd, but in general they seem quite proud.
Once we’ve moved away (25 days and counting down) I know I will miss the little voices (one of our nephews called me Uncle Blythe yesterday) and impromptu Sunday dinners where we’re trying to corral enough chairs so that most everyone has a place to sit. A good reason to encourage family vacation 2006 in Germany, right?
