Do Parents of Two or More Kids Have a Favorite Child? A Teacher-Parent’s Honest Answer
Last Tuesday, I heard myself say, “Why can’t you just be easy like your sister?” The words were out before I finished drying the blue cup in my hand. My nine-year-old froze at the kitchen table, pencil mid-air. His sister, four, was humming in the hallway in mismatched socks. I wanted to suck the sentence back. Instead, I put the cup down and said, “That came out wrong. I’m frustrated about the permission slip, not about you.” He shrugged. Later, when I was tucking him in, he asked, “Am I your least favorite?”
I said no. But the answer felt thin. I teach third grade, and I’ve seen that same look on students’ faces when they believe a sibling or a classmate has the warmer spot. In a classroom, I try not to have favorites. I still notice that I lean toward the kid who says thank you, or the one who doesn’t need three reminders to find a pencil. At home, with my own kids, it’s harder to pretend the weather is always even.
Most parents of more than one child have a favorite in some season. Not forever, not always, but in a given month, one child is easier to enjoy. The baby sleeps through the night. The middle child has learned to read. The teenager is funny and doesn’t need reminding to put shoes away. The other child is in a tantrum phase, or slamming doors, or needs help with homework that turns into a nightly negotiation. Favoritism isn’t usually a secret ranking. It’s a shifting weather system. The problem isn’t the feeling. It’s what kids see.
After that kitchen moment, I put a sticky note on the fridge for a week. Not a behavior chart for the kids—a note for me. Each night I wrote one thing I’d done with each child that wasn’t logistics. Not “packed lunch.” Not “nagged about teeth.” Something like: “Read two pages of Dog Man with Eli.” “Let Nora stir the pancake batter.” The point wasn’t to make it equal. It was to notice who was getting my relaxed attention and who was mostly getting instructions.
That first week was uncomfortable. Eli got mostly corrections. Nora got cuddles. Not because I loved her more. Because she was four and still sat on my lap. Eli was nine and asked for help with long division at 8 p.m., when I was already done. He didn’t need less love. He needed a different time of day.
On Saturday, I took Eli to the hardware store. He picked out a paint stirrer like it was a sword. We talked about nothing. On the way home, he said, “You’re nicer when it’s just me.” I laughed, but it stung. He
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