Do Parents Have a Favorite Child? What This Mom Noticed at Bedtime
The math worksheet was the last straw. Maya, my nine-year-old, had been circling the same problem for ten minutes, eraser crumbs scattered across the table like snow. I sat down next to her, and something in my chest softened into the familiar groove it always finds with her. We worked through the fractions together, slow and steady, and when she finally got it, she leaned her head against my arm for exactly three seconds before bouncing off to find a snack.
From the doorway, Nina watched. She’s twelve. She had finished her homework an hour ago, unasked, and was now leaning against the frame with her arms crossed.
“You know I don’t have a favorite,” I said, before she could say anything.
“I didn’t say anything,” she said. But she had that look—the one that says she’s filing this away for later. Then she went upstairs, and I sat there with the eraser crumbs and the distinct feeling that I had just answered a question she hadn’t actually asked.
The thing is, I’m not sure I answered it honestly. Not because I love one more—I don’t think I do—but because the question “Do you have a favorite?” gets tangled up with a different one: “Who is easier to parent right now?” Those aren’t the same, but from the outside, they can look identical.
Here’s what I mean. Maya needs me in obvious ways. She needs help with math, reminders to brush her teeth, someone to sit with her while she falls asleep. Nina needs me in quieter ways—a ride to soccer, a yes when she asks to have a friend over, a presence in the room that doesn’t hover. Her needs are real, but they don’t pull at me. They wait. And because they wait, they sometimes wait too long.
I’ve talked about this with other parents, usually in parking lots or on the sidelines of games, and the responses split into two camps. Some say, flatly, “Of course I have a favorite, and I think most parents do—they just won’t admit it.” Others insist the whole idea is a myth. What I’ve noticed is that the first group tends to mean something specific: a child who is easier to like on a given day, or a child whose temperament matches their own. The second group tends to hear “favorite” as “loved more,” and that feels untrue to them.
Both things can be true. You can love your children equally and still find yourself lingering longer with one of them. You can delight in one child’s company on a Tuesday and another’s on a Friday. But here’s where it gets tricky: children don’t experience your internal balance. They experience your attention. And attention is measurable. They count the minutes. They notice who gets the bedtime story and who gets the distracted “uh-huh” from the kitchen.
There’s research on this, and it mostly points in one direction: kids who perceive favoritism—whether or not it’s real—tend to have more behavioral issues, lower self-esteem, and rockier relationships with their siblings. Notice the word perceive. The perception matters more than the reality. Which means the goal isn’t to achieve perfect equality, since that’s impossible, but to make sure no child feels like a permanent afterthought.
I learned this most clearly from a student I taught a few years ago. Let’s call him Devon. He was the middle of three boys, and he mentioned once, very matter-of-factly, “My mom likes my little brother best because he’s cute, and my big brother best because he’s good at sports. I’m the one who’s just there.” He said it the way you’d mention your eye color. But he brought it up at all, which told me it was on his mind more than he let on. Kids are remarkably good at knowing where they stand in the family lineup. They just usually don’t say it out loud.
So what do you actually do with this? Not much, if you try to do it all at once. What’s worked in our house is smaller than I expected.
First, I stopped pretending the differences didn’t exist. Now when I need to help Maya with homework, I’ll say to Nina, “I’m going to sit with your sister for twenty minutes, and then I’m yours.” The “and then I’m yours” matters. It names the difference without pretending it isn’t there, and it gives a time frame instead of a vague promise.
Second, I keep a running tab in my head—not of love, but of minutes. Who did I sit with today? Who did I ask a real question? Who did I laugh with? Some days it’s lopsided. It’s never going to be even, but I can usually correct a lopsided day by Wednesday.
Third, and this is the one that felt strangest at first, I sometimes just say what I notice. “You’ve been patient while I helped your sister a lot this week. I see that.” Nina doesn’t want a parade. She wants to know I’m not blind.
The night after the math worksheet, I went into Nina’s room and sat on the floor while she showed me something on her phone—a game she’s been playing, some character she designed. I asked questions. I didn’t try to fix anything or bring up the doorway moment. She didn’t bring it up either. But she talked for fifteen minutes, which is roughly fourteen more than usual, and when I got up to leave, she said, “You can stay if you want.”
I stayed. It wasn’t a resolution. It was a Tuesday.
I still don’t know if I have a favorite, in the way people mean it. What I know is that Maya gets my hands—the homework help, the back rubs, the practical tending—and Nina gets whatever’s left after that, which isn’t fair and isn’t fully fixable. What I
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