I am the oldest of two kids, and I’ve spent much of my adult life listening to my brother complain (good-naturedly) any time the subject of childhood milestones comes up. To hear him tell it, my parents have reams of records about my first tooth, my first words, my first band-aid, and boxes crammed with every precious thing I ever touched, looked at, drooled on as a child–while he has…a half-filled-out baby book with a few pieces of paper haphazardly folded inside.
When this subject comes up, my parents kind of do a half-chuckle, uncomfortable-shift-in-their-chairs thing while assuring us that they MUST have kept the same records for both of us, right? Are you sure? Let’s get out the books and look…I could’ve sworn…mumble mumble…
My own reaction has always been to remind him that at least he HAS a baby book. There are tons of kids in the world who don’t even get that. Geez. Perspective, Brother–get some.
Easy for me to say, right? MY childhood has been preserved. Bronzed, even.
But I think for my brother this is about more than boxes of mementos and pages of records. On some level, the difference in our documented “stats” is linked with how much my parents cared about the things we did as children. For him, a half-filled book meant he was somehow slighted.
And now that I’m a parent of two children, I’m taking my brother’s complaints much more to heart. Because suddenly, I’m the one who’s watching her second baby grow up too fast, while making quick, shorthand notes on random scraps of paper and hoping I can find them later (let alone remember what they are supposed to say.)
My son is almost 8 months old, and there are still things that happened in his first week of life that I’ve been meaning to get down on paper someday. Mostly because I think I should. Because in the back of my mind, I hear him when he’s grown (and he sounds a lot like my brother), wondering why I kept every card his sister received in her first year of life, while I couldn’t even be bothered to write down at what age he first rolled over.
The truth is, I think there’s more to “Second Child Syndrome” than simple parental laziness. To be sure, I’m much busier now than I was when we had only one child—and that certainly doesn’t help my record-keeping. But I’m also that much more aware. My husband and I have been through this all once before. We know a little better which things matter and which probably don’t. We have a bit more perspective on exactly how much the first pair of socks our son outgrew will really mean to us (or him) in the future.
So I’m trying to find my peace with the parental guilt of not doing for one what I’ve done for the other. Because when it comes down to it I may not have a beautifully filled out book and detailed account of each bite of food our son took, but I will hopefully have a record of the really important things–the way he looks me right in the eye when he’s nursing, the way he giggles when he hears his sister laugh, the way he is so determined to walk even though he’s only seven months old and oh yeah: he doesn’t. know. how. (Tired. I’m so tired.)
I can only hope he’ll understand that someday—that his every action is just exactly as important to me as his sister’s, even if I didn’t record everything. And while I may not be able to tell him the precise day he first stood up by himself, I can give him a very thorough description of just how proud of himself he was—and I think in the long run, those are the kind of “stats” that matter.
(Although I will say, I expect my brother’s second child will have impeccably accurate records to look back on someday.)
Posted by Shannon, a Dot-arilla Blogger