Practice child

One of my (many) rage triggers is to see my daughters, ages twelve and five, physically fighting over some object, such as a stuffed animal or an electronic device or the Style section of the Washington Post. The subsequent Angry Dad™ showcase is in part fueled by Angry Dad’s™ unrealistic expectations. Once upon a time, you see, I mistakenly (naïvely) believed that because of the age difference these sisters would live in harmony, the big one looking after and protecting the little one and the little one looking up to and following after big sister like a puppy. Instead I have two smart, confident, stubborn girls willing to wage war on one another over the slightest provocation.

I generally resolve these sibling skirmishes by yelling at the big one to stand down because, well, she’s the big one. That’s pretty much Parenting 101, right? In fact, if I had five bucks for each time I’ve ended a conversation with my oldest daughter with a variation of because you’re twelve and she’s five, that’s why, I’d be so rich I would have to register as a Republican. Anyway, it got me thinking about parenting and how parents treat the oldest child differently than their younger siblings. I should disclose that my wife and I are both oldest children and understand first hand that parents do not parent all children equally. Not even close. After some reflection, I’ve concluded that there are two reasons this happens. First, oldest children serve as laboratories for parental experimentation with lessons learned applied to subsequent children. Second, as more children arrive, parents are tired and busy and relax their standards. Whether this is right or wrong, fair or unfair, good or bad is immaterial. It just is. The oldest child is the practice child and to younger siblings accrue the benefits.

This dichotomy is not new. The Book of Genesis tells the tragic tale of Cain and Abel. Cain was the oldest child and his parents, Adam and Eve, were firm with him and maintain high expectations. Then Abel came along and standards were relaxed and perhaps he was indulged a bit. One day Cain got tired of the bullshit and stoned his brother to death. That’s when God stepped in and asked Cain, rhetorically, where he could find Abel. Cain shrugged and said: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Yes, Cain. You’re the oldest. Of course you are your brother’s keeper. God, by the way, was not amused. There’s also the story in Genesis of spoiled little Joseph, a youngest child with a flashy coat who was coddled by his father, Jacob, to the point that Joseph’s older brothers kidnapped his ass and sold him into slavery. And in Exodus, pity poor Aaron, older brother to Moses. His mother, especially, was hard on him. Your brother, Moses, is leading our people out of slavery, and you can’t even be bothered to pick up your dirty socks? Oy vey, Aaron, you are my oldest son – I expect that you should know better.

But I digress. In our family, the twelve-year-old is our practice child. We started out with high expectations and have continued to hold her to them. With the five-year-old, not so much. I mean, we have expectations, we just realize we can chill out a little bit and she will most likely turn out fine. For instance, when the big one was little, my wife and I religiously consulted the popular books What to Expect the First Year and What to Expect the Toddler Years. These were our owners’ manuals for child-rearing. As time went on though, it became apparent that these books were not that useful. Yes, they are wonderful at addressing insecurities of new parents by telling them that their kids are “normal,” whether the kid is a clump of damp dryer lint with a pulse or the kid is destined to lead the planet to a better future by the sheer force of her innate abilities. This is the kind of reassurance you can expect:

At six month your child . . .
. . should be able to	drool, poop, cry.
. . . might be able to	roll over, grasp a toy, sleep through the night, smile.
. . . might even be able to	dunk a basketball, compose classical music, map the human genome, develop iPhone apps.

As first-time parents, we desperately needed to know how our baby girl compared to other babies. Was she normal? Was she advanced? FOR CHRISSAKE SHE IS SEVEN MONTHS OLD AND STILL CAN’T RECITE THE ALPHABET! Calm down, my wife would scold, pointing to the “should be able to” column, at least she’s better than those poor babies who still have yellow poop!

The books sat un-consulted on a shelf when the little one arrived. We now had experience. Plus we were too busy dealing with the primary needs of an infant while continuing to make certain her older sister was exposed to as many opportunities as possible. Chess tournaments. Piano recitals. Soccer games. Astronaut camp. Cello lessons. Gladiator school. We did not chart the little one’s daily developments. I have no idea how old she was when she first rolled over or when she said her first word (it was “no”). We have tens of thousands of photographs and hundreds of hours of video footage of the big one, and none of the second. If we had a third child, we probably wouldn’t even give it a name.

The recorded history of the little one’s childhood may be spotty, but in return she is allowed to get away with a lot. She does not get away with murder, we’re not that horrible as parents, but she does get away with a lot of misdemeanors (and a few minor felonies). She carelessly uses a sharpie to scribble on the white leather couch and we give her a stern look before giving her a big hug and cleaning it up (or forcing the big one to do so). The big one doesn’t put her plate in the dishwasher and we yell at her for being irresponsible and force her to load and unload the dishwasher for a week. We yell because we care, we tell her later, while quizzing her on foreign capitals and major river systems of the world as her little sister plays with Barbies.

Despite the inequities, I don’t fear that the big one will harm the little one, at least not in the way that Cain harmed Abel. But sometimes the little one will come upstairs crying and claim that the big one pushed her down. For no reason at all, she contends. Then I tell the little one that snitches get stitches because Angry Dad™ has zero tolerance for whinny little tattle-tales. Then she flashes me her big smile with bigger dimples because she knows that she has blanket immunity from serious punishment. Then I yell at the big one to keep her hands off her little sister because she’s twelve and her sister is five.