My name is Valerie, and I am a youngest child.
I like to wear my birth order proudly on my sleeve. After all, it proves to be rather convenient. I use it as an excuse. I don’t unload the dishwasher. I’m a youngest. Or perhaps Scrub the toilets? Who are you kidding? I’m a youngest! And yes, a majority of these excuses revolve around my disdain for cleaning.
But sometimes this youngest child badge of honor on my birth order sash is more of a burden than a blessing. Quite frankly, sometimes it sucks. And only a youngest would ever say being the youngest sucks because after all, we’re spoiled. We’re coddled. We’re openly the favorite. So now fetch our dinners with umbrella drinks.
Sure, we lastborns have it pretty easy. We don’t have to live as an example for our siblings. We don’t ever have to worry about MCS (Middle Child Syndrome). And, most of all, we’re loved. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents: they all love us.
But it’s not always the ideal lifestyle. We’re forced to wear hand-me-downs from birth until we move out and/or get a job that affords us to buy our own clothes. If we’re lucky, our siblings are of the same gender. My sister, lifelong sufferer of an extreme case of MCS, often jokes about having to wear hand-me-downs from our brother.
I definitely had secondhand clothes from the other side of the closet, but it never really worked to my parent’s money-saving advantage. My sister was born as a perfect size 2, remaining that way until college. I, however, was decidedly not, the only member of my family to be born with any sort of chunk on my body (and also a full head of hair – maybe my real father is the milkman?), making clothes-sharing with my sister rather difficult.
To make up for the fact that my parents actually had to buy me clothes, I was subjected to a number of hand-me-down toys. I received a few dolls from my sister, and they were even in one piece … except they were bald and naked. I really didn’t mind this, and luckily for everyone involved I’ve never really been the girly, plays-with-dolls type. So a few Barbies and Skippers sans clothing was never really an issue.
Despite being the youngest, I still had plenty of my own toys. I abused my ability to acquire everything I asked for by demanding more, which I most likely also received. But also, that happiness was empty. Looking back I realize: why did my parents buy me all of those things? Was it to unburden their guilt?
My mom went back to work part-time when I was in kindergarten. When not at school I was often placed in my grandma’s care. We got along famously, my grandma and I, and consequently my mom would ship me over there for weeks at a time in the summer, a feat less dramatic than it sounds because my grandma lives less than a mile away from my parents.
I was at my grandma’s when my first dog was put to sleep. I was completely oblivious. “Where’s Buster?” My mom burst into tears. Apparently he had some brain tumor I was unaware of.
So, carting me over to Grandma’s was the easy thing to do. It was just the two of us and Tommy, her cat. We’d ride the bus, eat unhealthy food, and alternate between watching the news, the Bible channel, PBS and soap operas.
Soon I became too old for Grandma’s, so I was carted off to band practice and church services. When entering band I wanted to play either the alto sax or French horn, but my mother made the decision that I would play trumpet. After all, we had an extra one lying around the house, my brother’s castoff.
My brother. My family’s own personal Miles Davis.
I was signed up for private lessons under the same teacher. Every week, he compared me unfavorably to the infinitely more talented of the Williams clan.
And then there were the performances.
My parents came to my performances. Except my dad, who at the time was traveling a lot with his job. They’d endure the subzero football games unhappily and whisk me away immediately after, despite invitations from friends to go to diners or bowling alleys. My dad missed my first big jazz band solo, an entire feature on the flugelhorn. My mom videotaped it, and when finally watching he appeared to be less than interested.
I think the best present I ever gave to my parents was the gift of a driver’s license. My dad was more gung-ho about me driving than I was. Finally: ee had a chauffer! He was so happy that I never even had to fight for the car.
I obviously didn’t get my own vehicle, but my dad, who never went anywhere after work unless it was with my mother, willingly sacrificed the keys. The only downside was that I still had to take the bus to school.
Once I was independently mobile, performance attendance became optional. That meant no more subzero football games. No more orchestra concerts. And if they attended at all, they could leave right after my portion.
For my last spring jazz band concert my senior year of high school, my friends received flowers, hugs and presents from their families on concert night. They stood around in the band room taking pictures and issuing congratulations. My parents were MIA backstage.
I walked to my car, trumpet case in hand. On my front seat was a bouquet of flowers. A nice gesture, but it seemed halfhearted.
I was grateful. I went home and thanked my parents for the thought. But it was that day that got me thinking that maybe I was only spoiled so my parents could make up for the fact that they were so burnt out on raising two children before me that they couldn’t afford to grant me the same amount of attention.
In some ways it’s worse now. My brother, now 30, is married with 1.5 kids. My sister is married. Then there’s me: I have a rental house, no job, a cat and no desire to mate.
Even my grandma has changed. The younger generation has swept her off her rocking recliner. When we speak, she has a tendency to exclusively discuss my cousin’s children, most times referring to me by their names, which is awkward considering the eldest one is named Evan.
Life could’ve been worse. I could’ve had no Barbies instead of bald ones. But as a youngest, it is my birthright to pity myself.
I do have one thing going for me: at least I don’t have MCS.
~Valerie Williams
valerieleewilliams@gmail.com
Philadelphia, PA
