I finally made rice and beans. This was reason enough for triumphant celebration on T Street. Still, I was frustrated with myself. It shouldn’t take a college senior half an hour to open a can. Was I really this helpless?
I didn’t need to look further than two days ago for an answer, and that answer was yes. Earlier in the week, I bothered my visibly-annoyed housemate to tie my tie for my senior portrait. I was very close to asking the same housemate to change my guitar strings, but I remembered that such a request was often accompanied by a lecture and threats of violence. Every time we get fast food, my friends tease me because I can’t put the plastic lids on top of the fountain sodas.
Then there was the car ride back from a ski trip when I was 17. When my cousin asked me to get out and pump the gas, she almost killed me when I sheepishly told her I didn’t know how. I couldn’t even tie my shoes until an age I’m too embarrassed to write. My mother tells friends I had difficulty learning how to drink out of a straw. I couldn’t suck, just blow.
I had discovered my inability to perform many of life’s simple tasks but was still unable to pinpoint the source of my problem. My told me that it was because my mother babied me, but I didn’t think that this theory made sense. After all, I take care of my hygiene and appearance, including showering daily and wearing appropriate clothing. My father, however, often refers to me as “The Prince.” I didn’t understand. My friends had much more stuff than I had growing up; my bed and chair at the dinner table were less than princely. I tried to think of something that really set me apart from the other kids I grew up with. Suddenly it hit me. I had discovered the deadly cause of my pathetic inabilities: I am an only child.
Growing up, I sat around alone while other kids learned how to do the dishes and take out the garbage. When my parents asked me to pick up the sticks in the backyard, I sulked around the lawn for a few minutes and called it a day. When it was time to wear a suit, Poppa Bear always made my ties. Momma Bear made my bed. I never made my own food, bamboozled friends into changing my guitar strings, and bullied small children into filling my car with gas. Unfortunately, I still don’t have a good explanation for being unable to drink out of a straw.
I wish I could blame my parents for my deficiencies, but I suppose that’s not fair. It is unfortunate that only children get all of their parents’ attention. A sibling would have been really beneficial, and not just for having someone else to blame after flushing mom’s wedding ring down the toilet. With my parents’ attention split between two children, I would have learned how to fend for myself every now and then.
I’m sure there are some smart aleck only children out there who will call me spoiled, claiming their parents taught them responsibility and self-sufficiency from an early age. I can only respond that I’m trying. I really want to shed the title my father’s given me, but it’s hard work. Every pot of rice and beans I successfully cook on my own is a step towards that goal. But if you know how to change guitar strings, can you let me know?
