It's one of those absolutely depressing paradoxes of life that the harder you try not to pass on your deeply embedded flaws to your children, the more certain that they will have the trait branded into their soul. After spending my entire life trying to prove that I measured up in the maniacally competitive atmosphere that was my family(I think the example that best shows the crazy going around is that four of my five siblings won a full ride to high school and after the fact, so nastily teased the only one who finished second (out of 50-odd applicants, mind you) that I wouldn't blame them if it's something still remembered), I vowed that I would raise children who knew exactly how valued they were if they never won a damn thing in their life. Even to this day, we don't say "Good boy!" or "Good girl!" but instead say, "Good action!" to try and dissociate the person --immortal-- from the behavior, which hopefully can change. Hopefully. Hopefully. (Side note: this leads almost weekly a beautiful moment when you have a 2 or 5-year old running behind a baby hollering, "BAD ACTION, ARYEL! BAD ACTION!" as our little marauder cleans out a shelf not yet baby-proofed.
The above is of course why I have children so competitive that they assign scores to things like how well they brushed their teeth or how many toys they managed to put away during clean-up. I don't think there's a cure for that.
Elijah, in particular, has been feeling the soul weight a little bit lately. As a fellow firstborn, I feel his pain acutely. There's no applause for winning when you are inherently bigger, stronger and faster. We have an appetite for underdogs and Cinderella stories, but nobody cheers when the proverbial Goliath stomps out David like all the Philistines thought would happen. Judah has been recently finding his niche at soccer, bike riding and skateboarding, among other things, and poor Elijah, used to being superior in many academic ways, finally had enough one day. "Dad!" he exploded, "Judah wins everything! It's not fair!"
"I'm sorry," I stuttered, completely caught off guard by the outburst. Unhelpfully, I initially tried to combat it with facts. You read better, you love math, you're excellent at karate, etc. I had heard, but I hadn't discerned. "No, Dad! You give him pennies and coins for his piggy bank! You play baseball and all the things that he wants to do! And he even wins Memory!" (All true, and not something I had ever thought would be construed as anything but acts of love.)
But my metaphor-mixing lawyer wasn't finished. "I don't matter about the everything else, but I just want a lucky day!" It was all I could do to not crack up at the most serious parental moment in years. Rough translation: "I love him too, but I need you to affirm me!" I pulled him aside. "I can't make you win everything. God gives us each special talents. But you have been given so much." I pointed out how we each have something to contribute to the world that only we can give -- Elijah LOVES people; Judah and I are somewhat allergic to extroverts; Judah has amazing kinetic balance; Jael perserveres, etc. And -- glory hallelujah! -- he understood.
Crisis temporarily averted. To quote Mumford and Sons in Only Love, "
And I hunger and I thirst
For some shiver
For some whispered words
And the promise to come." I had been trying to feed the immortal desires of his love-starved soul with the moldy bread that is 'winning'.
Luckily, there's a lot that a (literal) pancake breakfast date can fix, but it was a jarring reminder that ad campaigns be darned, it doesn't get easier. Life (and parenting) gets bigger as you go. The stakes will only get higher and the issues more complex. Grace be with us all.
Tune in next time for the flip side of the brotherly competition in which Judah decided to take on Elijah at math...
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