The First and the Last

    When I was younger, I would often ask my mom why I didn’t have siblings and why, as a natural parent, she stopped after one child. The consistent answer was something along the lines of “because you were the most perfect daughter we could ask for and we didn’t want to chance having another, less amazing child.” And with this adorable face, who could argue?
(Insert picture of me as an adorable baby on my computer at home)
    Okay,  I’m not just making this blog to talk about how perfect of a child I am or how cute I was (have I mentioned that I was a children’s clothing model back in the day?) although I was mostly spurred by a love of writing about myself.

I think family dynamics are fascinating considering that this early environment is a defining factor into a person’s life. Home environments and family relationships are the things that come up in psychiatry sessions. Researching psychological effects of being a single child, a common recurring theme were the expectations. Any of the only children I know are, also, coincidentally, high achievers. Personally, even if I don’t feel the weight of pressure of my parents or their expectations, it’s still a looming concern. I pressure myself because, indirectly, I know that I am the only chance.

I’m the eldest child, the youngest child, the favorite child and the least favorite child all rolled into one. So what does that mean? I need to fill all of these roles at once. The oldest child typically assumes the role of the responsible one. The youngest typically receives the most attention and is fawned over by the parents and the family. I’m both of these things.

So I get all of the attention, all of the pressure, all of the responsibility, and all of the love? Sounds like a perfect recipe for egotism. And it’s true; while I may not be obviously selfish, I don’t easily give up the spotlight and feel like I need to be special, to be visible, to be heard.

My mom lives under the constant impression that I am perfect. Even though it is difficult to judge a child’s academic aptitude in elementary school where grades were on a “satisfactory” or “unsatisfactory” scale I was noted to be, by my teachers, as an exemplary students. Based on the fact that I mastered multiplication tables and simple pre-algebra, my mom continues to think that I am a fantastic math student. However, once letters and numbers began to become jumbled and the theoretical world of math lost its luster to me, I began to realize that math just isn’t for me. My suspicions were  reinforced after sitting through a year of Mr. Hansen’s pre-calculus class in which I floundered.

The point of this anecdote is this: this was the first time I struggled so helplessly in a class and it was a humbling experience for the only child raised with expectations of perfection. It took me a while to come to terms with the fact that math is just not my thing. Give me some poetry or some presidents to memorize and I’ll be fine; give me some numbers and I’ll just quietly slip out the window. “But I’m perfect,” the voice in my head whispered, “I couldn’t be inadequate at anything,” it continued. And while my mom still insists that I am fantastic at math and that I could someday become a great chemist or physicist, I can know that it is not true.

So maybe the fact that I chose to write my blog on a purely selfish, egocentric, self analytical topic is the perfect example of how I’m an only child.