Comparing Children

By Veronica

Is it ever okay to compare your children?

Because I do it. There are the obvious things that are just part of getting to know your kids: this one is more stubborn than that one, this one needs cuddles more often than the others, this one is a great eater while the others just pick. But I notice other things too. This daughter has the most startling eyes, that one has a perfect mouth, this one has the world’s cutest nose.

I don’t say these things out loud, of course. I don’t want my girls to compare themselves and say, “Mom likes her nose best.” But I notice.

This mildly horrifies my husband. All our children are equally loved, and he wants that love to be reflected in an equality of all other traits. I’m not sure that’s entirely possible.

My parents sometimes categorized my brother and sisters and me. In brief, we were the pretty one, the athletic one, the smart one and the witty one. Of all these, I would think the pretty one might find it most insulting, but for better or for worse, she was vain enough to find it flattering. And now that she is an adult, she has many other accomplishments besides beauty. The one of us who complained about her designation the most was my younger sister, the witty one. She thought this was a trivial identity. Since, however, it meant that everyone wanted to sit by her at parties, I envied it.

(Seriously, in high school you could always find her by looking for the clot of people that periodically burst into laughter. She would be at its center.)

I have been thinking about these things because my current baby – my last baby – is simply wonderful. She is sweet and laughing, wide-eyed and friendly. She loves to snuggle. She sleeps well. She wakes in the morning with a contented smile and grins at me instead of immediately demanding that we start our day. She even – and this is the first time I’ve had a baby like this – sometimes lets me put her down. Today I put her in her car seat, put the car seat on the dining table next to my plate, and she let me eat an ENTIRE MEAL that way.

The whole meal. I ate with TWO hands. I can’t remember the last time a baby let me do that.

I do not love this baby more than my others; I loved the first one who wouldn’t sleep, I loved the second one who had colic and I loved the third one who was extra demanding, even for a baby. Each of my children has been equally precious to me. But I find myself surprised at how often the experience of babyhood this time around comes in sweet moments, with very few of the bitter ones.

My father, when he speaks to each of us on the phone, will say, “You know you always were my favorite child. Every one of my children is my favorite child!”

And it’s true. Every one of my children is my favorite. Every one. I don’t want to limit my children or create jealousies among them. I love every one of my daughters, and I think they are all beautiful. My compliments of them are absolute rather than comparative. But I still find myself saying, without thinking, when I scoop my youngest up in my arms, “Oh, honey! You are such a good baby. The best baby in the world!”

Veronica blogs about the best baby in the world at Toddled Dredge.