Being the youngest

I often wonder what effect the position of my children in the family has on their personality, their interests, their approach to life. I know I’m not alone in this. I’ve talked to enough other parents who also find it an intriguing question. I’d love to re-run my family with the three children in a different order, just to see how it changes them. I’d do several versions, varying the age gaps as well perhaps. Fortunately, life doesn’t work that way, and I’m left wondering.

Mostly it’s a game of conjecture. Would 10-yo be more or less easy-going if he hadn’t been the oldest? Would 4-yo be more or less confident if she had been an only child for the first 3 years of her life, as he was? Conjecture, with a touch of guilt now and then. The first child, inevitably, receives more parental time and attention. Subsequent children receive less, but I think there is a sense in which that removes a burden. There is definitely a lot to be said for getting on with your own childhood development while flying under the parental radar. So for me, it’s a touch of guilt, tempered with realism. I feel a bit bad that 4-yo’s preschool report tells me things I don’t know about her – that wouldn’t have happened with my eldest – but I know she has a richness of experience from muddling along with two big siblings that he never had. I’m not so aware of the progress of each skill and ability, I don’t spend much time and effort helping her learn to count and spell her name, but I’m a more experienced parent. That must count for something (I hope). I also have a wider perspective on the value of all this endless assessing of children’s abilities. I’m a third child myself (of four), and I’ve never had a moment when I would have chosen to change my lot.

Yes, mostly it’s a game of conjecture. Occasionally, though, there are incidents which I can categorically state would not have happened if the youngest was the eldest. A few days after 4-yo’s birthday, 10-yo had his best friend round. John, bless him, had patiently listened over snack-time while 4-yo regaled him with stories of all her new presents, before he and 10-yo disappeared off to their big boy occupations. A few minutes later, 4-yo rushed into the kitchen, and said “guess what I gave John, guess what I gave John”, with that post-birthday excitement still gleaming on her face. “I don’t know”, I said. I hoped that he hadn’t been embarrassed by (for his sake), or dismissive of (for her sake) whatever small piece of pink festive paraphernalia she had bestowed on him. A pink bow carefully saved from the gift wrap perhaps, or a Disney princess paper plate. “What did you give John?” I asked. “A wedgie!” she shouted, with gleeful triumph.

Now THAT wouldn’t have happened without older brothers.