ONLY CHILD
As told by one of five children
When I make the statement that I’m an only child it usually elicits a negative response. Mainly from my siblings, but often from others that know the family. Before you pass judgment you should know I may not have been an only child in the physical sense, but in my mind I am the only one that matters. This is not a selfish look at life. Let me explain. You see, being the oldest I watched my mother and father toil and care for the other children. Time they could well have used on other pursuits if it hadn’t been for the others. Think of the countless hours and hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on rearing five children. Had the other four not weasled their way into our happy little family my parents would have been very different people. You do the math. How much time and effort go into teaching the boys to hunt and fish? Educating a girl on the fine art of girl stuff is a daunting task as well. Parenting the right way takes energy and time beyond comprehension to those without children.
Without the others I could sit around the campfire and tell stories to myself. Without the others I could drive through the woods alone looking for something to shoot, or blow up. Without the others life would be a little more boring. I guess it’s not so bad to not be an only child.
Just a few short stories, most unfinished, that I've written through the years. There are hundreds of more stories in the minds and imaginations of my friends and family yet to be captured in pen and ink. If you have stories you would like shared, please drop me a line through my Facebook page. Click on Rednek Ritin' in the Facebook link below.
THE GAME CHANGER
ReplyDeleteBy Nancy Mansfield
I was the "only child" until age nine when my parents had the brilliant notion to give me a brother. I was perfectly happy being spoiled rotten; all attention on me, all the time.
I knew the little brother idea was trouble from day one. Mom had to spend an extra day in hospital after delivering said big-headed baby brother, so dad had to stay home and look after my care and feeding. I remember sitting nervously at the kitchen counter as dad rummaged the cupboards looking for the proper gadget to prepare my favorite breakfast of one "soft-spoiled" egg over toast as mom called it. As dad placed the egg in a pot I remember stating "that's not how mom does it". Apperantly this is not helpful. Three slices of burnt toast later, I had my breakfast, oh lucky me...an unshelled egg rolling around atop black toast. "That's not how mom serves it...she peels the shell off" to which dad calmly replied, "well no time like the present to learn something new so get crackin." As I crunched on the first mouthful of egg I vowed, through my tears, that I would not let this baby person, this ruiner of the perfect breakfast, disturb my world ever again. 42 years later I am happy to report that with the exception of his love for the Bay City Rollers in the late '70's I can honestly say my brother has yet to disturb me, and he still lets me call shotgun when we travel.