Why Do I Feel Guilty For Being A Better Parent To My Second Child? Small, Practical Tips That Help
I was mid-sprinkle of blue sugar on Mia’s dinosaur cookie when it hit me. Ten minutes earlier, I’d snapped at my 8-year-old Lila for leaving her muddy soccer cleats in the middle of the entryway, for the third time that week. I’d rushed her to finish her homework, cut off her story about the new kid in her class when I needed to haul wet laundry to the dryer, and sent her to her room to sort her own socks when she complained I’d folded her favorite hoodie wrong. Now here I was, on my knees next to the kitchen counter, letting my 4-year-old dump half the jar of sprinkles on one lopsided cookie, and I wasn’t even annoyed.
A few days before that, we’d been driving to Lila’s soccer practice, she was picking at a chip in her neon nail polish in the backseat, when she said it, quiet and matter-of-fact: “You’re nicer to Mia than you were to me.” I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. She wasn’t wrong.
When Lila was Mia’s age, I was working 50-hour weeks at a marketing job, we’d just closed on our first house and were stretched thin on mortgage payments, and I was convinced every small choice I made would mess her up. I rushed every bedtime to answer one last work email, turned down repeated requests for finger painting because I didn’t have time to clean the table, and lost my temper over small messes way more often than I care to admit.
Now I work part time from home, I’ve stopped panicking about spilled juice or screen time that slips by 15 minutes, and I have the energy to sit through three bedtime stories instead of one. I’m a “better” parent on paper—calmer, more present, less stressed. But that “better” version of me only showed up for the second kid, and I can’t stop feeling like I stole that version from Lila.
I talked to my sister, who has three kids, and she said she feels the exact same way. Her oldest still teases her that the only baby book he has is half filled, while the youngest’s has every ultrasound photo and every first drawing taped in. It’s a weird, quiet guilt that no one talks about much—everyone warns you the second kid gets shortchanged, not that they get the upgraded you.
Over the past six months, I’ve tried a few small things that have helped more than any long apology or over-the-top one-on-one outing I planned to make up for it. None of them take much time or money, and they don’t erase the guilt completely, but they take the edge off.
The first thing I started doing is naming the gap casually, instead of ignoring it or giving a big, awkward apology. A couple weeks ago, I was sitting on the floor helping Mia practice buttoning her shirts, a skill I rushed Lila to learn on her own way earlier than I should have. Instead of letting the guilt sit heavy in my chest, I turned to Lila, who was building a Lego set on the couch, and said, “Hey, I never got to sit and practice buttons with you this much when you were little. This looks silly, but do you want to practice buttoning my cardigan for fun?” She laughed, came over, and spent 10 minutes buttoning and unbuttoning it, teasing me the whole time that I sewed it crooked. It wasn’t a big, tearful moment, but it acknowledged what I’d missed, and let her have a little bit of that undivided attention now, when she still wants it.
The second thing is I stop being defensive when she points out an unfair difference. Before, if she said “You let Mia stay up 15 minutes later than I did when I was her age,” I’d jump in to explain that I was working, I was tired, things were different back then. That just made her feel like her feelings were wrong. Now I just say “You’re right, that’s not fair. Want an extra 15 minutes of screen time tonight to even it out?” or if it’s snack related, just hand her the extra cookie. Small, immediate adjustments make her feel seen, and I don’t have to turn every comment into a big conversation about my guilt.
The third thing I’ve started doing is stop trying to give them the exact same experience at the exact same age. Lila doesn’t need three bedtime stories from me anymore. What she needs right now is for me to put my phone down and listen to her entire 12-minute story about the drama in her friend group, even if I have a sink full of dishes waiting. Mia needs the extra cuddles and slow practice getting dressed because she’s 4. I can’t go back and give Lila the slow, patient toddler years I give Mia, but I can give her the slow, patient pre-tween years she needs right now. Last week, Lila forgot her science project on the kitchen counter, and I left my work 20 minutes early to drop it off at school. When Lila was Mia’s age, I would have never been able to leave work to do that for her. That’s not me favoring one kid—it’s me being able to show up for whoever needs what, right now.
Last night, I asked Lila again, when I was tucking her in, if she ever thinks I love Mia more. She rolled her eyes the way only an 8-year-old can, pulled her unicorn blanket up to her chin, and said “No. You let her get away with more because she’s little, but I get to stay up later and get ice cream alone with you when she’s at preschool. It’s fine.”
I still feel the guilt sometimes. I still look at baby photos of Lila and wish I’d slowed down more back then. But I don’t beat myself up about it the way I used to. The small, casual checks add up, and so far, that’s been enough for both of us.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » Why Do I Feel Guilty For Being A Better Parent To My Second Child