guilt

Men are supposed to be desperate to have sons, but as a prospective parent I wanted a daughter. I have no explanation. When a boy child emerged I could not care less, but did hope that the second would be a daughter.

We have preferences, but the notion that a parent might love one child more than another is anathema. If they were honest, parents might agree that it is often so. Children themselves know it: “My sister was daddy’s favourite.” But a parent will never admit such favouritism.

 

A parent might get on better with one child than with others. A parent might have more in common with one child. My good woman says that we don’t love one child more; we love them differently because they are different people.

OK, so we love them differently, but that says nothing of the different quality of our different loves. Is this simply an easy out from admitting that we might love one child more?

What of the unlovable child, the child “only a mother could love”? (Why not “only a father could love”?) What of the child even a mother cannot love, the Kevins of this world? Working in schools with kids no other schools want, I meet a few kids nobody would want, mother or father.

I have a feeling, and only a feeling—it’s just there in my gut—that my son thinks I love his sister more than I love him. I can understand it. His sister and I get on better; that is, we have more in common. Our interests, our thinking, the way we do things, and our natures are more akin. She is the more intellectual of them.

My adolescent daughter has two difficult years and we struggle through them. (What’s the difference between an adolescent daughter and a vulture? The vulture waits till you’re dead before ripping your heart out.) Our relationship emerges much stronger.

My adolescent son struggles for years and I am oblivious. I argue that he gives me no sign that things are amiss, whereas his sister’s anguish is a beacon. At that time I am a school principal. My son resents it bitterly. Perhaps he hides his unhappiness rather than have me practice my professional skills on him.

Nonetheless I still feel guilty. If he thinks I should do better by him, he’s right. I am his father and I have the skills to see a young man struggling with his life.

Wiser teachers than I at Berengarra tell me, “Don’t teach at this school while your children are adolescents.” It makes perfect sense. Now.

   

Rock on.