I'm glad you asked

I was an odd child. I am an only child. People ask me, "What was it like growing up an only child?" Um. I sat in my room and created little books. Books of puzzles, books of stories, and coffee table books with pictures from the pages of National Geographic onto which I typed captions and dialog. My favorite is the picture of a giraffe and an African guy standing nearby. In the dialog bubble above the giraffe's head I typed, "What? I can't hear you. Could you speak up, please?" Get it? Speak UP!

I spent a lot of hours alone being that clever. So when I'm asked what it was like growing up as an only child, I say it fostered in me the desire to one day publish. It also fostered in me a desire to badger my parents on a fairly continuous basis to produce a baby brother for me. My preference for a brother was very likely due to the fact that, when it came to play, I preferred my Tonka truck over Barbie, baseball over house, and building forts over hanging out at the street corner with nothing better to do than pretend like you hated all the boys you really liked.

A brother would have solved a lot of my social problems. He would have become, first and foremost, my favorite project. I would have dressed him. I would have packed his lunches for school. I would have taught him how important it was to protect me because one day he would grow much bigger than me. But, alas, my parents did not heed my advice to produce another tax deductible dependent.

So, this is what an only child does. I entertained myself. For example. My parents and I took many long road trips. My poor parents. I was like the pint sized philosopher from hell.
"Look mom! The wheat field runs like it has legs." (next time you're driving next to a furrowed field you'll see what I mean)
"How does the moon follow us?"
"When I stick my legs up like this it makes my stomach feel funny and I can touch your head too."
"Can you hear me when I stick my head out of the window like this...and scream?!"
"My lips are tingly."

When I wasn't prattling off profound statements, I was begging them to entertain me.
"Let's play 'Who Am I'?" (for the 21st time)
"I spy with my little eye something...red." (probably my mother's hair)
"If you guys would just have a little brother for me this would be a lot easier on you!"

I was one of those kids you see in the car just in front of you, waving his hands and sticking his tongue out at you. I used to press my face against the window as a car passed by and mouth the words "HELP ME" (I don't know if my parents know that). What's sad is that no one did!

When I got really, really bored my parents could appease me by allowing the unthinkable these days. I loved to get on my knees on the space just behind and between the two front seats, and drape my arms around each of my parents' shoulders. It was always a treat. I loved touching them in this way. I always begged and begged until they would finally give in. I don't know if it was as enjoyable for my parents. I remember playing with my mom's hair. I remember her getting irritated that I kept "pulling" her hair. I remember feeling pretty happy there between them. I remember the feeling of my heart. It was similar to the feeling in my stomach when we would crest a bump in the road. It would make me giggle. Then the time would come when they would tire of my jabbering away in their ears and being fidgety and I would once again be banished to my backseat solitude.

What was it like growing up as an only child? I don't know. I learned not to be afraid of anything mechanical because my father didn't have a son to take into the garage instead. I learned that being alone on a rainy day isn't lonely. I preferred the company of adults over the company of friends my own size and intellect. I was sure I had every adult convinced that I was their intellectual equal. That must have been very entertaining for the adults who knew me. Or irritating. I learned that if you don't talk a whole lot at home because you irritate your parents, you can save it all up for when the teacher is talking in the classroom the next day. I didn't learn how to be part of a team. I am terrible at that. I think well when I'm alone, after I've had the input of everyone around me. Alone is where I gain perspective.

My mom says I talked about God a lot. I didn't grow up in the church. We didn't talk about God too much. But apparently I did. When I came out as a Christian to my mom and dad in the late 80's, my mom eventually said, "I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of meeting God all of sudden. You used to talk about God all the time when you were little." It was a revelation. I don't know about you, but I forgot what it was like when I was a kid. Sure, I can bring to mind bits and pieces, but in general we don't remember how the kid felt except through the adult memory. And that is never quite as clear as we wish. Generally it's clouded by a little thing called puberty and adolescence.

When I really think about it though, I think I remember God. I think I remember him in the treetops where I sat for hours feeling the wind. I think I remember him in the early morning quiet as I looked out my window thinking simple little girl thoughts. I think I remember God in the backseat of the car at night when I was supposed to be sleeping. I think I saw him following me. I think I remember God in my heart while I knelt on my skinny little kneecaps in between my parents, my hands stroking their necks, feeling completely satisfied because I had them all to myself. That's what it's like being an only child.