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Home > Blogs > Adventures in Motherhood > Archives > 2009 > November > 12 > Entry
Parenting often depends on kids’ birth order
I think that I am ruining my firstborn. It is not intentional; actually, quite the contrary. But, more often than not, I have a tendency to react much less constructively to my oldest son than I do to his little brother.
I believe the problem is twofold: Since he was my first child, he is a test subject by default; and, secondly, I see so much of myself in him.
You might think that sharing characteristics would make a parent more sympathetic to a child’s behavior, and it does … at times. I am more patient with his highs and lows than his father is; but, then again, his father has to deal with me as well.
Most of the time, however, when I see these mirrored traits, it just makes me want to fix the kid; to allow him to skip over some of the stinging life lessons you have to endure and get right to the focused, confident, self-realized state you often don’t get to until your mid-30s.
Of course, I know this attempt to orchestrate his growth is unrealistic and potentially damaging. I know this as I sit here typing at work.
But when I am face to face with the kid, and he is playing with the drapes or writing on his shoe instead of finishing his homework, I can’t help but tell him (again) that he could make his life that much easier if he would just get the work done.
Or to tell him that when he wants something more from a person, the best way to go about it is not to start complaining about what he has — as was the case the other morning after his sleepover.
He was supposed to call when he was ready to be picked up. So, when I saw the caller ID, I was glad to see he was ready and hoped to hear his smiling tales of the fun times that were had.
But when I answered the phone at around 10:30 a.m. Sunday, I was greeted by a melancholy kid.
“Hi,” he said softly.
“Hey! Are you OK? Are you ready to come home?”
“Well, no,” he said, sounding distraught. “Could I at least have until 11:30? Or even 12:30?”
Turns out he had had a great time, but didn’t want it to ever end. So there was much haggling about what was best for the friend’s family and what worked with our day, and a tense compromise was reached.
After I got off the phone, I shook my head and asked my husband, “Why did he even call?”
A veteran mom might expect this call to go this way, brace for it even; but I am still learning. That is another part of my issues with my oldest son: not having a good frame of reference.
This supposedly is another function, or dysfunction, of the parent/firstborn relationship: expectations reportedly are highest for firstborns — both from parents and from themselves.
I do think I expect more from the 10-year-old than I do from the 8-year-old — that seems only natural.
But where I misstep is when I evaluate the older one on what I think he should be doing based on projection, rather than based on what might be more likely for his age.
At least this is somewhere in which the relationship with my younger son benefits: There is less pressure on him, and less on me to guide him because our roles are more defined.
My mother always said she felt my siblings and I all had different parents, due to a combination of each of our personalities and needs, her personality and ability to fulfill those needs and what was going on at the various stages in our lives.
It is just the luck, or lack thereof, of the draw.
My younger son used to ask me when he was little why he didn’t get to be born first. I bet he is glad he didn’t now.
Then again, he has issues over being the baby. Currently he is driving his father and me a bit crazy by taking everything we say literally.
As my husband recently yelled to him, exasperated, for the umpteenth time: “Just roll with it!”
Then he turned to me and said, “I gotta have more patience with him.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “At least we’ll ruin the kids together.”
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