I am an only child. I have never had a problem with my sibling-free status, except maybe now in my divorced, mid-age. Hey, if I had a sibling at least I’d have someone to potentially hang out with on those kid-free weekends, or help me split half the condo fee if I want to take the kids up skiing. But beyond these minor inconveniences, I have truly enjoyed my status of one.
Others, however, just didn’t seem to get it.
“Weren’t you lonely?” a common, concerned query.
“Oh, you were spoiled,” a common, wry, true statement.
Usually, these conversations would bloom, much like mold on bread, into rather lengthy and dense discussions about how children need a sibling so they learn how to share, interact with others, learn social cues, learn how to love and, ultimately, how only children never learn these things. I, of course, had nothing worthwhile to add as I was, in fact, one of those barbaric, pre-Anne Sullivan, only children myself. So, I would just take my toys and go chew on them in the corner.
Now, having two children of my own, I finally understand what all the fuss was about.
Having siblings is, in a word, hell.
All those years, I thought people were dissin’ me when, in fact, they were greener than Shrek with envy.
Siblings suck. Siblings are mean, vicious, dare I say it, barbaric, pre-Ann Sullivan wild animals, bent on nothing else but the total destruction, dismemberment and death of the other sibling.
And I can say this because I have two, yes two, count ‘em, two kids.
Why two kids you ask? I don’t know. Why not? Well, I’ll tell you why not:
Shotgun.
Yes, shotgun.
My kids live and die by one rule, or should I say law. The Law of Shotgun.
Since birth and before they uttered their first words, my kids already knew about the Law of Shotgun. Being an only child I was ignorant of this law, but apparently it is hard-wired into the baby in utero. If the baby grows up and another baby enters its domain, the shotgun gene fires and it is on.
Now, the basic premise behind the Law of Shotgun, as I’m sure all of you multi-children parents already know, is: whoever calls “shotgun” first gets to sit in the front seat of the car. As an only child, I had no experience in the ways of the shotgun. After all, the front seat was all mine. Mine, mine, mine. I never had to run like a greyhound or fight like a pit-bull to secure the passenger seat. I simply walked to the car and got in.
My children, on the other hand, are veritable gurus on the Law of Shotgun. They are Shotgun Samurai without all of that bothersome training. They don’t need it. They’re naturals. They are at that passenger side door, tearing at the door handle, tearing at each other, hair pulling, eye gouging, noogying, Indian sun burning (no form of combat is off limits in the Law of Shotgun), before I’ve managed to wheel that shopping cart off the rubber mat. I should sign them up for the marines. They’d kick ass. The captain, colonel, whoever runs the show, would simply yell “SHOTGUN,” and my kids would be out of that foxhole and over that hill mowing down the enemy like two little, freedom-starved William Wallaces.
Just as there are no rules of combat in the Law of Shotgun, so it has no rules of engagement. One can be shotgunned anywhere or at any time. I have been shotgunned in the shower, on the toilet, half-naked, from half a mile away and at close range. I have been awaked at 3 a.m., my son, crouched low, stealthily coiled, beside my bed, uttering the battle mantra:
“Shotgun.”
Already planning for the 6:30 a.m. ride to the bus. I’d kill him if I weren’t so in awe of his commitment to his craft and excellent organizational skills.
As it is a true fact that only children are way smarter than other people, I figured I could easily outwit the little fiends with my superior intelligence. I bought a mini-van.
And it worked! For one month.
I swear, it was on the same day the payment book for the big, blue, bubble-butted mini-van came in the mail.
“Shotgun!”
I might have cried. I can’t remember. It’s almost too painful to talk about.
The captains’ chairs, the DVD player with dual headphones, the individual climate control, the cup holders, the countless cup holders, the automatic, sliding rear doors…none of it could match the Law of Shotgun. At this point, I think they’re addicted. Little shotgun junkies. They need their fix.
And the Law of Shotgun does not stop at the front seat. Oh no, it rears its ugly head in all aspects of sibling life: the bathroom, the computer, the radio station, the reclining part of the sofa, who I say goodnight to first, who drives the remote control. Thank God, my daughter doesn’t like video games and my son has no desire to straighten his hair.
I cannot imagine what the John and Kates and Octomoms go through. It’s not so much the Law of Shotgun anymore, more like the Law of Machine Gun.
My only hope is time. I suspect they will grow out of this, but, being an only child, I cannot be sure. I thought all that “sharing is caring” stuff would stick, so what do I know? Until then, I guess I should be glad I still get to drive. And, hey, it could be worse, I could be all alone.
Brilliant!