Playing Favorites

When I was a kid, I always thought that my sister was the favorite. Most of the time, that perception had no real impact on our relationship. We fought hard, but we loved hard too.

But there were times that I resented her for being perfect. For never making waves. For finding everything so damned easy. And I wanted, just once, for my parents to be as proud of me as they were of her.

I realize now, that I was doing both my parents and my sister a gross injustice. But I didn't have the maturity or the perspective then to understand that. I felt judged and unfairly so. I felt inadequate and unloved when nothing could have been further from the truth.

Parenthood has taught me many things and parenting Diminutive One has taken my education to an entirely different level. Through him, I am earning a doctorate in rearing a spirited, stubborn, learning disabled, brilliant but apathetic child. Not that I wanted one, but when life gives you lemons....

Anyway... I realize that my parents didn't like my sister better, they didn't love her any more deeply and they weren't any more proud of her than me.

The thing was...she was just easier.

I feel that I don't give Pre-Pubescent equal time here on Blogs Are Stupid. And the reason for that is that he is just easier.

When he was an infant, he was affable and obedient and aside from his tendency to bolt, a pretty effortless kid to parent. He slept well. He ate well. He did everything pretty much on schedule. And on the rare occasions that he needed correction, a stern "NO-NO" usually did the job.

He has always made friends easily, and even when it became apparent that he had attention issues, his teachers still liked him and found him a pleasant kid to have in class. He started taking meds and he has done well ever since.

Now, at 13, we are seeing some pre-pubescent angst emerging. Some eye-rolling, some smart aleck-ness. Some scorn. Some defiance. But it's all age appropriate and still really manageable all things considered. He feels guilty when he knows he's crossed a line. He can't deal with guilt. He can't deal with disapproval.

So generally speaking...he is pretty pleasant to be around. He doesn't exhaust me emotionally, mentally and bodily the way Diminutive One does. He doesn't argue over every little thing under the sun. Having him around is not a constant struggle.

He's just....easier. And sometimes, I desperately need easy.

Do I love him any more? No, though I do love him differently. My love for him is not as complicated and it's not fraught with constant anxiety over whether I am doing a good job with him or how/where he will end up if I don't figure out how the hell to parent him.

I enjoy him. And I so want to enjoy Diminutive One, but most of the time, I just don't. He is brilliant and creative and complex and fascinating and amazing...but he's also argumentative and contrary and stubborn.

My sister wasn't the favorite. She was just easier. And I totally get that now.

My mother, with whom I most often butted heads, must have been absolutely crazy with over my refusal to do anything to ensure a bright future for myself; a future she knew I could secure without much effort if only I would try. But I wouldn't try. God how that must have worried her. I know how it worries me. And I know, God how I know, that there must have been times she wanted to beat me silly and then walk away and never come back.

And then, when her anger cooled, how she must have wanted to take me in her arms and shelter me from a world that would never understand, never know what box to put me in and so, would simply give up on me, as I gave up on it. I know how she feared for my self-esteem and tried her best to keep the demons of apathy and despair at bay.

But she couldn't and I can't.

This afternoon after a particularly volatile argument between me and Diminutive One, he told me that I don't know how he feels and what he's thinking. Oh but I do, I told him and I tried to explain. But he wouldn't believe it, couldn't believe it.

"YOU?" he said scornfully. "Yeah right. You were probably perfect."

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"Yeah, perfectly awful" I said. "Call Grandma. Ask her. She'll tell you what a pain in the ass I was."

"Uh-huh. You were probably her favorite."

He glowered all the harder. I'm not sure why, but identifying with me, or me identifying with him is unthinkable. It shakes up his rigid thinking about the way of things and that's not something he is comfortable with. He's rather be misunderstood and miserable, again, something I can understand.

So I didn't tell him that I wasn't the favorite. I didn't tell him that it bothered me something awful as a kid. I didn't tell him because I didn't want to validate his suspicion that he is not the favorite.

He is my favorite. He is my favorite Diminutive One. And I know some day he will grab the world by the balls and make it sing a high wavering fasletto for him. I just wish I could tell him that now in a way that he will believe. But only time and distance can do that.

One day...one day he'll know how much I wanted for him, how hard I tried, how seriously I took my failures, how harshly I judged myself for not being the mother he needed.

Christ I hope we don't kill one another before then.