Don’t get me wrong. I love all my children. I do. Even the one that rolls her eyes every time I open my mouth. I love them with a visceral, ‘I’d-do-anything-for-them and I’ll hurt anyone who hurts them’ kind of love. Tiger Mom has nothing on me. And let me be clear here; mine are no longer vulnerable babies, chubby-cheeked toddlers with a predisposition to bumped heads, or tweenies starting a new school. They’re not even teenagers wracked with confidence crises and crippling self-doubt. These are functioning – sort of – young adults with jobs and gym memberships. Most of them have cars.
But. And this is a great, big but—a but of gargantuan proportions. There’s a standing joke amongst us that I, like Kris Jenner, have a favourite child.
Kris most recently declared at her 42nd birthday dinner that daughter Kim Kardashian was ‘pretty much the leader’ of their famous family, causing controversy. She once also claimed Kylie was her favourite. And Kim herself didn’t hold back either, previously claiming her son Saint was her ‘favourite’.
But unlike Kris, not only do I absolutely not admit to any level of favouritism, but I also have never vacillated between favourite children. Number three has been my favourite since, well, forever. There. I said it. Out loud and everything. You’re judging me, aren’t you? Or ARE you? Are you, in fact, nodding in recognition, eyes wide at the revelation that, yes, it happens, and it’s not just you?
The very concept of having a favourite child is understandably completely taboo. It’s an exceptionally delicate and complex subject which tends not to be discussed. Whilst it's natural for parents to have unique bonds and different connections with each of their children, overtly favouring a child over another must surely have dire negative consequences on their emotional well-being. It would also adversely affect their relationships with their siblings – already a minefield of rivalries and accusations of favouritism - and within the wider family. What begins as an ostensibly petty fall out can widen into a chasm over the years.
Treating each of your children entirely fairly is vital. It’s the only way. Show them – in fact, TELL them – that they’re loved and cherished. Ensure each is given equal opportunities and outlets for growth and development. Make sure that’s matched with equal praise and pride for their achievements. Every child is an individual, and each has their own strengths and weaknesses. They deserve to be valued for who they are, and they need to know they’re special.
But what makes this particular person I made my favourite? Does this mean that I – shock, horror – simply don’t like the others? No, of course not. As I said, I love them all equally. And – again, refer up – anyone who suggests otherwise will feel my wrath. I LIKE them all, I enjoy their company, and as far as they’re concerned, they’re ALL my favourites. Although number two does refer to himself as my best child because he’s tidy, organised, and practical – enviable qualities which have regrettably eluded the others. And me. All three boys seem to think I’m softer on my daughter, as the youngest. I’m not. It’s just that they’re old enough to see her get away with the behaviours that they, too, were forgiven.
My number three, though - he’s always been a cheery soul, my happy bunny. Teachers loved him throughout his school years. He’s funny – though they all are – and clever, ditto. He’s sensitive, though, easily hurt – and equally easily outraged, especially by perceived injustice and unfairness. Is THAT why he’s my favourite? His sensitivity manifests itself in generosity and empathy. Even as a stereotypical little lad with a grubby face, grazed knees and a footy kit, he’d know when I was feeling down or particularly stressed, and I’d get a sticky cuddle. As he grew up, he’d stroke my hair and find a relaxing classical music playlist. That’s quite special, right? The others aren’t uncaring, don’t get me wrong, far from it, but they’re not quite THAT caring.
Or another theory is that he was still just a baby himself when number four was born. Number four is the only girl and people – oh God, don’t you just LOVE those sorts of people? - had the audacity and outright bloody cheek to assume and often even vocalise that she was longed-for and tried-for and that we could stop now. Even my in-laws, for goodness’ sake. That horrified and enraged me. How DARE they suggest that my boys weren’t enough? Worse, that my beautiful, beloved number three boy was somehow a disappointment to me and his daddy? I railed regularly and loudly against that assumption, even going as far as admitting that number four was far from planned. Despite that, I did find myself feeling as though his babyhood was cut short, somehow. Perhaps, therefore, I overcompensated. After all, parenthood is just one long guilt-fuelled journey. And no, spoiler alert. The guilt doesn’t just stop once they grow up. Soz.
My late husband was his mum’s favourite, her blue-eyed boy – a phrase she used often and openly. Sadly, she made that very obvious, and his older sister was understandably hurt and bitter. Other parents I’ve met along the way clearly favour their golden child; the sports star, the clever one, or, worse, the pretty one. Others seem to hold a special affection for their last born, especially if that was an only girl or boy. I have never and would never do that – hence hiding behind anonymity. I know how lucky I am to have these brilliant, healthy, happy children. I would never, ever have longed for a different one. They are, in a schmaltzy cliché which would make me gag on other women’s social media, my world.
I discussed this piece and the sensitivities thereof with a close friend. ‘A favourite child? That’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Everyone who knows you knows you don’t have a favourite.’ ‘Phew,’ I said. ‘Nope,’ she replied, ‘You’ve always made it abundantly clear that you prefer the dogs. Oh well, that’s another taboo for another day…’