Admit It — You DO Have a Favorite Child

Admit it — you DO have a favorite child. AmIright?

It’s ok, you don’t have to tell me which one it is. I don’t need to know. No one needs to know. Hold that secret close, Mama.

Is your favorite the oldest? The youngest? The  middle? The girl? The boy? The baby? Is it the one who can tie his or her shoes, the one who’s potty trained, the one who clears her plate and puts his clothes away? The one who listens when you say it’s time to get in the car, pick up your toys, get ready for bed, leave the playground? The one who does her homework without you asking?

I have four kids. And since I’m writing this post, I will tell you who my favorite is.

It’s the baby.

“Wait,” those of you who know me say, “you have two babies?”

Ok, my favorite is my girl.

“Wait,” those of you who know me say, “you have two girls?”

Ok, my favorite is my boy.

“Wait,” those of you who know me say, “you have two boys?”

Yeah.

Here’s the thing — and of course you knew I was getting there — they’re all my favorite. In five-minute increments. Just to be fair. #FiveMinuteFavorite is often one of my Instagram hashtags as of late.

My favorite is the one who clears his plate and picks up her shoes and puts away the Legos and feeds the dog and makes her own lunch and puts away his laundry. My favorite is also the one who sneaks in our room at night and snuggles up next to me at 2 a.m. The one who holds my finger to stand up and then smiles as if standing up is the best thing to ever happen to any human being ever. The one who reads me a short story drawn with marker about Ferdinand. The one who scribbles a picture of the dog and when I ask what the dog is doing, he says, “He pooping in the yard, Mama.”

My absolute favorite is the one who falls asleep in my arms, tiny hand wrapped around my finger, smiling in his sleep. The one who needs a huge hug because he tripped on the brick walk. The one who says “Goodbye, Sissy. I love you,” from the backseat of the car. The one who likes to bake and makes up recipes with Ritz crackers, yogurt, soggy Cheerios and apples (ew). The one who tucks his head under my chin and burrows his head in my neck. The one who laughs like she’s just won the Lottery when I walk into daycare. The one who reads to her little brother at night. The one whose smile is so slow to light up his sweet face that we call him “Flash” from Zootopia. The one who builds a fairy house in the yard and runs in to show me. The one who pats my face while I rock him to sleep.  The one singing the wrong words to Frozen at the top of her lungs. In those moments, they are each  my favorite.

And there are times when that particular child is nowhere near being my favorite. When my threenager melts down in hysterics because his peanut-butter sandwich is cut wrong. When my 8-year-old rolls her eyes and stomps her feet at me when I ask her to brush her teeth. When it’s 3 a.m. and both twins are screaming. When he sasses me and tells me I’m going to my room if I do that.one.more.time. If she has a giant blowout diaper in the car seat. The one who is up for the day at 4 a.m. When he bites me out of frustration. When she won’t stop crying in Target over a pair of boots she wants. When he throws a block at his door during timeout. When he rips up his sister’s picture on purpose. When she’s having a fit over finding a pair of tights. When she leaves her lunch box in her backpack all weekend with food in it. When he pees all over his church clothes a minute before we walk out the door. When she rubs snot all over my work clothes and gets mushy teething biscuit stuck in my hair.

The truth is, when you have four kids — or any amount of kids, really — at any given time, any one of them is going to not be and be your favorite. I know really, in my deepest heart, they are all beloved for who they are and even on their worst days, they are loved solely just because they are mine. Forever.

But sometimes I have a favorite. And for five minutes, that’s okay.

So, tell me, who’s your #FiveMinuteFavorite right now?