23 hours ago
5
I recently stumbled across a letter I wrote to Santa when I was six years old. Deep in a box of crumpled photos and loose negatives, my earnest correspondence to the big man requested nothing but a sibling. I wrote sister in every possible iteration: half-sister, adopted sister, stepsister, foster sister and, underneath, just in case Santa couldn’t grant that particular wish, I added the same options for brother.
If Santa somehow turned out to be real and started granting wishes to tired mums in their late 30s, my wish would probably remain the same: I’d rewrite history and add a sibling. A lovely one, preferably, but I’ll take what I can get. Because honestly? Being an only child sucks.
My parents split up when I was one. It was the right call, as are most divorces, however it meant the experience of a full sibling was off the table at an early age. I spent my early years with my single mum; we were a great team and I was very comfortable with things as they were. Until I started noticing friends acquiring siblings.
What fun my friends had with their siblings! An inbuilt playmate! A co-conspirator against the enemy that is parents! Someone to blame when things got broken! Someone to confide in when things got tough! I was sold. My poor mother had to deal with my begging and pleading for a sibling, which unbeknownst to me was her wish too. Circumstances weren’t on our side and, after years of trying to convince her to conjure a sibling out of thin air, I set my sights on my dad and stepmother.
I moved in with them at age 12 to attend a high school in the city. With my stepmum being younger than my dad, the chance of a baby half-sibling seemed much higher and I wasted no breath in regularly asking for one. Deep in their PhDs, however, my wish was not to be granted and my teenage years crept by without a sibling in sight.
To add to the loneliness of being an only child, I had no cousins I was close with. Either by distance, age or having little in common, it was just me and a bunch of adults. When you’re a kid trying to figure out the world without other kids messing up beside you, it can feel like you’re doing it all wrong. All the focus lands on you and that attention could be utterly mortifying.
Nowhere was this more excruciatingly clear than the summer I got my second-ever period during a Christmas trip to visit my grandparents in Sydney. Having not yet braved tampons, I told everyone I’d just skip swimming for the week. But with four adults and no other kids to absorb their attention, it was decided: I would learn to use a tampon.
Much to my dismay, my grandpa was sent out to buy mini tampons and, as suggested by my stepmum, a small jar of Vaseline “to help things along”. The process was explained in painful detail by my stepmum, with well-meaning interjections from my grandmother. When I was finally sent off to the bathroom to give it a go, I was acutely aware of the four adults waiting just outside the door, eager for news of my success.
While the tampon incident of 2002 was indeed a success, that summer made me painfully aware of how different I was from families with multiple kids running around. While I’m sure there are mortifying moments in bigger families, at least there’s comfort in knowing you aren’t the only one experiencing toe-curling embarrassment.
At the risk of someone pulling out a tiny violin, at 38 my yearning for a sibling has only deepened. The loneliness of being an adult only child is an interesting catch-22 in a time when only-child families are surging and I find myself biting my tongue lest I make someone feel bad for not giving their child a sibling. No one should be made to feel bad for not having more kids, especially not in this economy (or this climate), but it does add a layer to the loneliness of being an only child: feeling like you can’t actually talk about it (I know, I know – tiny violin).
So while I’ll never experience the delight of completely unhinged sibling fights that are resolved two seconds later, or the joy of being an aunty to kids I adore that I can hand back, I have gifted my daughters each other. Twenty months into my experience of parenting siblings and I’m already relishing the “But she spat on me first!” and the “But I’m not even touching her” (said by a seven-year-old whose toe is a millimetre from angry screaming toddler’s face). And somehow, watching them navigate this ridiculous, messy relationship is quietly healing my childhood loneliness.
