Three Dog Night sang, "One is the loneliest number." As an only child, there are times when I might agree. You may be thinking, "Ewww, this girl's an only child. She's selfish, egotistical, spoiled, self-centered and bratty." Obviously, being an only child is not something to be automatically proud of. I get excited when people are surprised to find out that I'm the one and only. I think it might mean that I do not act like an only child.
As a child, being the only one meant that while you were outside playing wiffle ball or ultimate frisbee with all of your siblings, I was playing wall ball in our foyer. I played Solitaire while you played Go Fish. While you and your siblings wreaked havoc on the neighbors, I was busy trying to ride the dog around my backyard.
A television addict from an early age, I watched siblings interact almost every day on TV Land. I watched Happy Days and dreamed of a brother just like Richie Cunningham. I thought my family could be more complete with a Richie. He would be a little nerdy and protective, but he also would be kind of cool. My jealousy of Joanie was only overshadowed by my envy of every member of the Brady Bunch. In my mind, I was Marcia. If I had little sisters, they obviously would look up to me as the oldest and the coolest. With five other siblings, I never would be alone. Our house never would be quiet.
There weren't eight people in my family, like in the Brady's. There weren't even four like the Cunninghams; there was and always has been only three. Three is a pretty awful number. Three is an odd number, and it's a prime number. The number itself is ugly, no matter which way you write it. Three is a bad number for a family.
I was crushed when I finally figured out it was too late for me to have an older brother or sister. I begged my parents to adopt. Then I went through a phase where I secretly hoped to be adopted, because that way I might have siblings somewhere. Then I realized that as a spitting image of my parents, there was no chance I was adopted. I was strangely disappointed. Three always would be the number of people in my family.
In high school, I developed two coping mechanisms. First, my parents adopted my best friends. This was not the perfect cure, for I still was left without brothers. The second method was arguably more effective: I adopted my best friends' siblings. This way I ended up with a little brother, a little sister, seven older brothers and one older sister. I finally had more siblings than I ever dreamed of. It was glorious.
After I left my beloved home for Charlottesville, I realized my family was not incomplete. My parents are and always have been more than enough of a family. It's highly likely that I won the parental lottery. Having a sibling as cool as my parents might have been too much awesomeness for one house to hold. My parents were my best friends throughout my childhood. Who needs siblings when you've got best friends and parents all in one?
My dad is a man of principle. He's that one friend you have who is excellent by adult standards, but he's still really fun to be around. He's a baller but always humble. He's a perpetual guidance counselor. Though he might talk to you like you're five, he can make you feel better about anything and help you find a way out of every problem. He's the moral compass of our trio.
My mom is the smartest person I know. She's intelligent in every way; she's quick, witty, academically gifted and full of common sense - a Jill of all trades. My mom is the funny one. She's that friend who always can make you laugh. She calls it the way she sees it. My mom is the adventurous one. She keeps our family exciting.
We form one complete group. My parents were, and still are, ready to drop everything when I need them. They taught me to use my imagination, filled the sibling void in our family with dogs, played Barbies and read with me. They made sure I didn't have a lonely childhood.
Forgoing Rugby Road and the Corner for something far more important, I sped home the Thursday night before Spring Break to maximize the amount of time I could hang out with my parents. When I'm at home, we do everything together. We take care of the household chores together. We go to John Mayer concerts "on the regular," as my mom would say. We go shopping together, even though my dad lags behind as our "security detail." We always eat together. I really miss them when I'm in Charlottesville. Being apart is hard, but three-way calls keep us together.
Sure, being an only child had its rough spots growing up, but it also meant not getting blamed for messes I didn't make, not getting my clothes stolen, private school, never sharing a car or being jealous of my siblings. Being an only child meant being my parents' favorite.
Maybe one isn't really such a lonely number. I wouldn't know, since I was never just one. I always have been one part of three, and as it turns out, three isn't such as awful number. Three is the number of contestants on Jeopardy!, my family's favorite show. Three, like my family, isn't divisible. Actually, three might even be my favorite number.
Abbi's column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at a.sigler@cavalierdaily.com.
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