There are so many stories chronicling severe, even heinous, mistreatment of children at the hands of parents. There are horrific tales of incest, child molestation, emotional abuse, physical abuse and child murder.
Examples of monster parents seem to be everywhere, at least to hear their children tell it:
The typical Smothers Brothers story of a slighted sibling
lamenting his or her parents’ preference for a Golden-Child sister or brother is all-too-familiar. Seldom, though, is the story written from the Golden Child’s point of view.
My mother was only 17 when she married my father in 1941. Her mother had married at 16, so there was little opposition to the marriage from her parents, in spite of her young age. Not long after she became pregnant with me early in 1944 my father, a champion swimmer, was headed for the U. S. Coast Guard to fight in World War II.
On November 4, 1944, with my father somewhere off the coast of Japan, my maternal grandfather loaded his laboring daughter into the family car and drove to the hospital where I, his first-born granddaughter, would be born. He was the one who paced the floor in the “father’s” waiting room. At only 43, he fit right in with the other nervous fathers to be.
Because we were back to living with them, my grandparents provided all the care and support to their over-indulged new mother and her infant. Colic kicked in early. It was Grandpa who got up in the middle of the night to walk the floor with me or put me in the car and drive around the block until I fell asleep. I became “his baby” over whom he doted shamelessly. He became the major and forever father figure in my life, the man who set the standard of what a man should be in my eyes.
When my sister came along on April 1, 1947, so many complications had entered the picture the occasion was far less joyous. For one thing, she wasn’t due until sometime in May. My parents had divorced during the pregnancy after heartbreak over infidelity. And later, the delivery of the baby became so dangerous; my grandparents were asked to choose which life to save – the baby or the mother. By the time my sister fought her way into the world and survived in spite of the fact that the decision had been to save my mother, all involved were emotionally and physically exhausted.
The dramatic differences between the circumstances surrounding our births set the stage for the way the rest of our lives would unfold. I loved school. She hated it. I was precocious and outgoing. She was quiet and reserved. I would not be satisfied being in the middle of any pack instead of at the lead. She sought the anonymity and cover of the pack.
When I was 17, I went off to college. When she was 17, she eloped with her Viet-Nam-bound high school sweetheart.
All during these years between birth and leaving the nest, my sister’s resentment of me steadily grew. All the while, year after year, grandchild after grandchild, my alcoholic and often unthinking grandfather would tell anyone who would listen that I was his favorite grandchild. No one could get him to stop.
I was much too self-absorbed and focused on my own ambition and drive to achieve everything within my grasp to even notice my sister was being neglected, she felt, and freezing in the shadow of “everyone’s favorite,” as she called me later in life. She seemed to go out of her way to remain average in most things, with one major exception.
We both learned to twirl a baton when enrolled in summer classes while in elementary school. I am 2 ½ years older than she, so I was the one who became the first African American girl to become a drum majorette at our high school. She tried out when she was a freshman and made it. I had never heard her so excited about anything before the day she called me at college to announce she had been elected Captain of the majorette squad. She was obviously gloating; I could hear it even on the phone. I had never made Captain. I was so proud of her. I felt nothing but happiness for her achievement.
Another teen milestone became a matter of competition between us, unbeknownst to me. When I failed my driver’s license test because I screwed up the three-point or “Y” turn on my road test, I was too crushed to go back and try again. I didn’t get my license until I was 18. My sister was successful on her first try. A few years ago, when I was driving and she was a passenger, her tendency to be a Back Seat Driver irritated me and I snapped “I have been driving just as long as you have. I know.”
I glanced sideways to see her wearing a smirk. “What?” I said.
“Technically, I have been driving longer than you because I got my license before you did.” The smirk broadened. Enough said?
Although I never shared my sister’s belief that she was being ignored while everyone in the family ooohed and aaaahed over my accomplishments, I knew she did believe it. In spite of her periodic episodes of rage at my expense, I loved her with all my heart and did everything I could to let her know that.
Then one day – I’m not exactly sure which day – my sister stopped speaking to me. When she got married for the second time in the 1970s, I wasn’t invited to the wedding. She also stopped speaking to our mother and stepfather. For ten years, this went on and I couldn’t figure out why. My calls were left unanswered and my letters, too.
It wasn’t until my sister went to a therapist in Florida, where she had lived during this non-speaking period of years, that I received a call. She was in crisis and she needed me. She was wrong to have cut me out of her life the way she did, she said. It was unfair and cruel and now she realized that she was taking her resentments out on the wrong person.
I was thrilled to get my sister back. We are now close friends and confidantes, always there for one another. I wish I could say the one-sided rivalry has been put behind us. It hasn’t. Every so often, she will remind me how brilliant her son is (and he is!) Just about every time we get together she tells stories about how she unofficially runs the store she serves as office manager, and how much she is loved by the young people who work there. She is a much better cook than I’ll ever be and that’s fine with me. I never was a good cook, so now she does all the holiday meals. Poor me, huh?
Parents get blamed for making so many mistakes raising their children. God knows my mother made many. But I’ve always felt my mother was completely unaware of the impression she was giving to my sister. I was the squeaky wheel, a whirlwind of extracurricular activity which required endless sewing of costumes and performances to attend. By supporting whatever I chose to do that was enriching and character-building, my mother and grandparents inadvertently neglected the unspoken needs of my less flamboyant sibling.
I believe this unfortunate turn of events is the real reason my sister and I each had only one child. She says so, quite candidly. She didn’t want to ever take the chance of doing to a child what was done to her. I always say my decision to have only one child was made for me by circumstances, but I wonder how true that is. I feel so much guilt about being that Golden Child, I’m pretty sure my reason is the same as my sister’s.
Could this dynamic have been avoided? There is a chance it would have happened, even if my grandfather and my mother had been more sophisticated in the art of child-rearing. Sibling rivalry crops up in just about every family with more than one child. But I believe parents must ask themselves very tough questions as their children arrive and the family expands. Do I have a favorite? If so, is it obvious to my other children? Do I give each child the kind and amount of attention he or she needs? Have I allowed one child's interests to usurp too much of my time and attention?
A lot of pain and sorrow might be avoided by paying closer attention to the answers to those questions.
Examples of monster parents seem to be everywhere, at least to hear their children tell it:
- Fathers who belittled their daughters and laid the foundation for a lifetime of self-doubt and struggle to find a little pocket of society in which to fit;
- Mothers who compete with their daughters for the affection and attention of their husbands;
- Mean, hateful parents who take out all their disappointments on the children issued to them, either by Nature or by adoption or by default.
The typical Smothers Brothers story of a slighted sibling
lamenting his or her parents’ preference for a Golden-Child sister or brother is all-too-familiar. Seldom, though, is the story written from the Golden Child’s point of view.My mother was only 17 when she married my father in 1941. Her mother had married at 16, so there was little opposition to the marriage from her parents, in spite of her young age. Not long after she became pregnant with me early in 1944 my father, a champion swimmer, was headed for the U. S. Coast Guard to fight in World War II.
On November 4, 1944, with my father somewhere off the coast of Japan, my maternal grandfather loaded his laboring daughter into the family car and drove to the hospital where I, his first-born granddaughter, would be born. He was the one who paced the floor in the “father’s” waiting room. At only 43, he fit right in with the other nervous fathers to be.
Because we were back to living with them, my grandparents provided all the care and support to their over-indulged new mother and her infant. Colic kicked in early. It was Grandpa who got up in the middle of the night to walk the floor with me or put me in the car and drive around the block until I fell asleep. I became “his baby” over whom he doted shamelessly. He became the major and forever father figure in my life, the man who set the standard of what a man should be in my eyes.
When my sister came along on April 1, 1947, so many complications had entered the picture the occasion was far less joyous. For one thing, she wasn’t due until sometime in May. My parents had divorced during the pregnancy after heartbreak over infidelity. And later, the delivery of the baby became so dangerous; my grandparents were asked to choose which life to save – the baby or the mother. By the time my sister fought her way into the world and survived in spite of the fact that the decision had been to save my mother, all involved were emotionally and physically exhausted.
The dramatic differences between the circumstances surrounding our births set the stage for the way the rest of our lives would unfold. I loved school. She hated it. I was precocious and outgoing. She was quiet and reserved. I would not be satisfied being in the middle of any pack instead of at the lead. She sought the anonymity and cover of the pack.
When I was 17, I went off to college. When she was 17, she eloped with her Viet-Nam-bound high school sweetheart.
All during these years between birth and leaving the nest, my sister’s resentment of me steadily grew. All the while, year after year, grandchild after grandchild, my alcoholic and often unthinking grandfather would tell anyone who would listen that I was his favorite grandchild. No one could get him to stop.
I was much too self-absorbed and focused on my own ambition and drive to achieve everything within my grasp to even notice my sister was being neglected, she felt, and freezing in the shadow of “everyone’s favorite,” as she called me later in life. She seemed to go out of her way to remain average in most things, with one major exception.
We both learned to twirl a baton when enrolled in summer classes while in elementary school. I am 2 ½ years older than she, so I was the one who became the first African American girl to become a drum majorette at our high school. She tried out when she was a freshman and made it. I had never heard her so excited about anything before the day she called me at college to announce she had been elected Captain of the majorette squad. She was obviously gloating; I could hear it even on the phone. I had never made Captain. I was so proud of her. I felt nothing but happiness for her achievement.
Another teen milestone became a matter of competition between us, unbeknownst to me. When I failed my driver’s license test because I screwed up the three-point or “Y” turn on my road test, I was too crushed to go back and try again. I didn’t get my license until I was 18. My sister was successful on her first try. A few years ago, when I was driving and she was a passenger, her tendency to be a Back Seat Driver irritated me and I snapped “I have been driving just as long as you have. I know.”
I glanced sideways to see her wearing a smirk. “What?” I said.
“Technically, I have been driving longer than you because I got my license before you did.” The smirk broadened. Enough said?
Although I never shared my sister’s belief that she was being ignored while everyone in the family ooohed and aaaahed over my accomplishments, I knew she did believe it. In spite of her periodic episodes of rage at my expense, I loved her with all my heart and did everything I could to let her know that.
Then one day – I’m not exactly sure which day – my sister stopped speaking to me. When she got married for the second time in the 1970s, I wasn’t invited to the wedding. She also stopped speaking to our mother and stepfather. For ten years, this went on and I couldn’t figure out why. My calls were left unanswered and my letters, too.
It wasn’t until my sister went to a therapist in Florida, where she had lived during this non-speaking period of years, that I received a call. She was in crisis and she needed me. She was wrong to have cut me out of her life the way she did, she said. It was unfair and cruel and now she realized that she was taking her resentments out on the wrong person.
I was thrilled to get my sister back. We are now close friends and confidantes, always there for one another. I wish I could say the one-sided rivalry has been put behind us. It hasn’t. Every so often, she will remind me how brilliant her son is (and he is!) Just about every time we get together she tells stories about how she unofficially runs the store she serves as office manager, and how much she is loved by the young people who work there. She is a much better cook than I’ll ever be and that’s fine with me. I never was a good cook, so now she does all the holiday meals. Poor me, huh?
Parents get blamed for making so many mistakes raising their children. God knows my mother made many. But I’ve always felt my mother was completely unaware of the impression she was giving to my sister. I was the squeaky wheel, a whirlwind of extracurricular activity which required endless sewing of costumes and performances to attend. By supporting whatever I chose to do that was enriching and character-building, my mother and grandparents inadvertently neglected the unspoken needs of my less flamboyant sibling.
I believe this unfortunate turn of events is the real reason my sister and I each had only one child. She says so, quite candidly. She didn’t want to ever take the chance of doing to a child what was done to her. I always say my decision to have only one child was made for me by circumstances, but I wonder how true that is. I feel so much guilt about being that Golden Child, I’m pretty sure my reason is the same as my sister’s.
Could this dynamic have been avoided? There is a chance it would have happened, even if my grandfather and my mother had been more sophisticated in the art of child-rearing. Sibling rivalry crops up in just about every family with more than one child. But I believe parents must ask themselves very tough questions as their children arrive and the family expands. Do I have a favorite? If so, is it obvious to my other children? Do I give each child the kind and amount of attention he or she needs? Have I allowed one child's interests to usurp too much of my time and attention?
A lot of pain and sorrow might be avoided by paying closer attention to the answers to those questions.
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