I love you...and you...and you? Not so much.

I’ve seen a lot of articles and blogs in the last week or so about parental favorites; one or both parents loving a child more than the others. It’s really stuck with me all week. It’s also made me re-evaluate my parenting and my parents’ parenting.

In one article the author wrote that she grew up with a fundamental knowledge that parents do not have favorites and they loved each child just the same. That is not how I grew up. Bear in my mind when I’m talking about this I’m talking about my mom, who I lived with, not my dad. My mother always told us that she loved us all in different ways and that was quite apparent.

My mother saw each of us as individuals and encouraged that individuality. As different people we needed and were loved differently, individually. No one was loved more, no one was loved less.

My mother looked at my youngest sister as someone with an infinite curiosity, a love for all things living, an innocence that needed to be protected. She saw my middle sister as person with a light no one could dim, a person who glowed, a person who just needed someone to stoke the fire. I think she saw me as someone with a brave face and a cracked spirit, someone who found joy in caring for others, someone who needed a little bit of comfort but just enough to stand on their own.

At least that’s how I think she saw us. In her writing, in my memories of her, that’s always how she described us. She fiercely protected my youngest sister, cheered my middle sister on, and let me take on maternal responsibilities when she couldn’t while mothering me when I needed it. An education instructor once told me that, ‘fair doesn’t mean everyone gets the same thing, it means everyone gets their needs met.’ That’s the way my mother parented.

My dad, on the other hand, has a clear favorite; my middle sister. He still tries to deny it but even she’s stopped trying. I think he just relates to her more somehow. I wonder if I remind him too much of mom or something. I guess it doesn’t matter, it boils down to me feeling like I’m an eternal failure in his eyes. That may not be how he feels, but that’s the way he makes me feel. With my youngest sister I think he just doesn’t know her well enough. My parents split while my mom was pregnant and their whole relationship as she’s grown has been push and pull. It’s complicated now that she’s an adult but he pushes for and she still resists some. Anyway, this isn’t supposed to be about my dad (who I love dearly,) it’s about favorites.

With my kids I can pretty easily say that there isn’t a favorite, I love them all differently. I’ve been accused of having favorites though. Let me tell you what it came from a source I respect greatly and it stung. I cried and cried and to be honest I’m close to crying again just thinking about it. Maybe that’s why these blogs and articles felt close to home for me.

The Professor. He’s my companion. We’ve been through so much together. Throughout everything with his dad it was he and I. I see so much of myself as a kid in him. Some of it’s the awkwardness; some of it’s the emotional turmoil I see in him. I remember struggling with some of the things he struggles with and it was frigging hard. It sucks to be young and feel all these things you have no words for. I channeled my emotions differently, but I still remember how they felt. Maybe that’s what I see in him more than the others, a kindred spirit.

Mischievous Middle. He’s my boy, my rough-and-tumble boy. My adventurer. We’ve also been through a lot together but he’s always been the one to make things into a drama, sometimes a wonderful one, sometimes a difficult one. I love his sense of adventure, his bravery, his conquering spirit! It inspires me so much. He has this twinkle in his eye when he’s up to something and in that twinkle I see my mother, the practical joker.

Little Mother. She is confidence with painted nails. She’s just so sure of herself but looks to me for reassurance at the same time. She’s just so sure of herself. She questions everything around her, but never herself. She’s so very independent even though she still wants and needs a great deal from me. I can’t wait to see who she becomes.

The Babe. My sweet, sweet baby. She’s so calm and relaxed. Such a happy little girl. Oh how she loves to cuddle! She’s a warm, happy, quiet place on a dreary day. Her personality is still developing, still growing and I love watching her blossom.

StepN. She’s one of my best friends. Since she’s an adult, I can talk to her in ways that I can’t talk to the other kids. I wouldn’t say that I know her better than anyone else, because I know that isn’t true. I think I get her more than other people do and I feel like she gets me. I love her determination. I understand the struggle she goes through between feeling like she’s not good enough and feeling like she needs to prove that she’s worth so much more than others think. I love her so much. There’s this unspoken bond between us that’s been made with a lot of tears, a lot of hurt feelings, a lot of love. I can’t put our relationship in to words.

To be honest, I don’t think I’ve done my feelings for any of my kids justice here. There’s just so much that can’t be put into words and so much that if I tried to put it into words I’d never stop writing.

You can judge me if you want but it won’t change anything. I’d rather paint with Mischievous Middle or Little Mother over The Professor any day. He doesn’t care; he’d rather not paint because he hates it. I’d rather play games with The Professor or StepN. Mischievous gets bored if he can’t get the rules right off and Little Mother just wants to make up her own rules. If I need a cuddle I’m looking for The Babe or Little Mother. The other kids just don’t fit into my lap as well. I may have more current stories and pictures of Little Mother and The Babe than I do of the boys but it’s because of their age. They’re still doing and saying all sorts of cute things and don’t pose the second the camera comes out. It was the same for the boys when they were younger; they’ve just passed the ‘Kids Say the Darndest Things’ age. It’s not a matter of love.

They’re all individuals and my love for them is as individual as they are. No two kids are the same and so naturally we love them differently. It doesn’t make us bad parents. It doesn’t make our children less loved or more loved than their siblings.