The arrivals of my first and last children were both highly anticipated events. The same doctor was present for both deliveries, and they came into the world bald, cone-headed, and wailing for nourishment. They latched on with eagerness and ease.
However, my middle child, Leo, was a whirlwind delivery—just four hours from start to finish—and he will always be remembered as the baby nearly born at a restaurant. With a tuft of dark hair, he arrived quietly and took his time latching. Leo has always been different.
Let me clarify: I cherish all my children equally. But. (There’s always a but).
I find it easier to engage and bond with my oldest and youngest, especially my oldest, who I adore spending time with. I truly make an effort to connect with Leo; however, it just flows more naturally with his siblings.
And I suspect I’m not the only one who feels this way.
My eldest, Max, can hold conversations about topics I genuinely enjoy. He is inquisitive, with interests that span a wide range. Now that he can read voraciously—delving into subjects I’m not familiar with, like the nuances of ancient mythology and specific battles from history—he and I can engage in real conversations. I can share secrets with him, trusting him with thoughts I can’t express to the others. We can discuss serious matters, including my mental health and our shared experiences with ADHD, as we navigate life as non-neurotypical individuals.
In a nutshell, Max is an intriguing child. We all have that one kid—the one who is easy to talk to, unload on, and connect with. Some children are just naturally easier to bond with, and one of yours likely is too.
Max has opinions. While shopping, he will suggest what I should buy and what we can skip. He’ll express a desire to leave instead of continuing to browse, and he handles it without throwing tantrums. Instead, I buy him another book, and we chat about our favorite movies. His polite and thoughtful questions, like “What are you working on, Mom? That fabric looks lovely,” make him a delight to be around. He is simply charming, making it easy to connect and love him.
Then there’s my youngest, my little sunshine, Jamie. At just four years old, he sports long, flowing blonde hair and has a tiny voice that sweetly says, “I’m hungry, Mom,” or “I love you, Mom.” Jamie’s desire to cuddle and be close is heartwarming. He sleeps in our bed, snuggling under the sheets, and I cling to these moments, knowing they will pass. There is something magical about being the baby—the final child in the family. If you have more than one child, you likely understand that the youngest is often the easiest to hold.
Jamie loves creating elaborate sticker art, which he gifts to me and his dad, weaving long stories around each piece. He sleeps with an abundance of stuffed animals and embodies cuteness itself. I dress him up, cuddle him, and it all feels perfect. Loving this little one comes so easily, and I know many parents share this sentiment.
And then there’s Leo.
Leo has a passion for many things, including the color black. I try to let him choose my outfits, but it usually ends up being the blackest option. He also has an extraordinary affinity for animals, which can be both endearing and overwhelming. He’s the child that all dogs and cats gravitate toward, but his interests often lean toward the creepy and crawly—things I’d rather not touch. Right now, he’s obsessed with his worm farm, which resides under our kitchen table because I’m indulgent. Come spring, he’ll be busy catching slimy creatures like frogs and tadpoles.
Leo engages not through conversation but through a barrage of questions. When the questions come, they often center around when we will do this or how long until we do that, which can be stressful for me. I find myself snapping when I shouldn’t, even though I recognize that he’s searching for connection. We just don’t seem to mesh as easily.
Leo can be challenging. If he’s not asking questions, he’s fixated on salamanders or insisting on wearing his favorite Spinosaurus shirt instead of the cute clothes I have selected for him. I strive to care about his interests, patiently answering when he asks questions that aren’t time-related, defending his right to find the giant salamander first at the zoo, and spending time with him on the couch. These cuddles are extra special because of the distance I sometimes feel. I push myself to engage, even when it’s more demanding.
So yes, I have favorite children. It’s a tough admission, almost gut-wrenching. I watch my sweet Leo breakfasting in his favorite shirt, and I feel tears well up. “I love you just as much as I love your brothers,” I want to say. Even if it’s easier with the others, especially because it is easier.
With Max and Jamie, I don’t have to try as hard. Yet with Leo, I push myself to care about his interests, such as the salamander he thinks he spotted during our trip. I make an effort to care about his obsession with prehistoric creatures and ensure we visit the frog pond, where he can explore for hours. I brave the cold to collect rainwater for his worm farm because I want him to feel my love. But it’s undeniably harder.
I love all my children equally, but that love flows more freely with Max and Jamie. I often think of Leo, the sweet boy who may be my “real” favorite because of his unique spirit that doesn’t conform to anyone else’s expectations. But in my everyday life, I tend to name my oldest and youngest as favorites because they are simply easier to enjoy.
Still, my love for Leo is unwavering, even if tinged with guilt.
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Summary:
The author shares her honest reflections on her experiences with her three children, acknowledging that while she loves them all equally, her connections with her oldest and youngest come more naturally than with her middle child. This candid exploration of parenthood highlights the complexities of familial relationships and the different ways love can be expressed.
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