THEY SAY THAT children are affected by their role in the family, only children more than others. G. Stanley Hall, a famous psychologist, referred to an only child’s situation as being “a disease in itself.” Only children are known to be more independent but can also be stereotyped as spoiled, egocentric, and overindulged. The Thompson family didn’t have room for indulgence. Survival was the main focus of their family unit, and everyone, including Annie, was aware of their tight situation. Days like last Sunday, when frivolities like cake and presents scattered the house, were few and far between, and Annie had savored every moment of it.
Before my life took a downward spiral toward horrific, I was the eldest child, one of three—our age gap so great that the twins felt like my own children. Summer and Trent were six—eleven giant years younger than me. Dad says that Mom freaked out on her thirty-ninth birthday, suddenly obsessed with having another kid after a decade of just me. Modern technology blessed her with two.
I had six and a half years with them, enough time that I fell hard: they took and held hostage two large parts of my heart. As desperate as Mom had been to conceive at age thirty-nine, once the twins had been born, Mom had emotionally checked out of the maternal role, leaving me to step in with hugs, kisses, and diaper changes. I showered them both with love, and then puberty hit. After that, Dad did most of the sweet talking and bedtime stories. I don’t mean to indicate that Mom stuffed us into a corner of the house and ignored us. She was a fun, spontaneous parent, but she was just…different. As I got older, we grew closer. Her disconnect seemed to be with the younger children; the twins’ tears and tantrums pushed her buttons and rattled her psyche. The older I got, the closer we grew and the less time I spent with the twins. That, I blame on hormones.
Teenage hormones turned me into a fair-weather sibling—loving when it was easy, bitchy and argumentative when I felt like it. Unfortunately, bitchy was how I most often was. I should have hugged them more, kissed their bruises, let them pick the channel on TV. They loved me, idolized me, and followed me around, begging for kisses. I would give anything to just go back and have one day with them again.
I hate my former self; hate her selfishness and her lack of appreciation for her perfect suburban life. I had everything in the palm of my perfect, lazy hand and didn’t even realize it.