By Elizabeth Naranjo for Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers
“You love Gabriel better than me.” My daughter’s eyes are twin moons of accusation, trying hard to eclipse a bright hurt that nevertheless flares out at the edges.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I hold her gaze, concentrating on the anger that brought me here—to the doorway of her room—after driving her inside by the tone of my voice. She is ten years old, her brother five; they’d been battling over a toy and she’d wrenched it away hard enough to cause injury, screaming that she’d had it first. Of course I’d scolded her. She’s older, stronger. She should know better. In truth, my anger has faded; Gabriel’s fine. But I keep my expression stern because underneath the solid mask of righteousness is a creeping fissure of doubt.
Abigail has accused me for so long of preferring her brother that I’m beginning to believe it. I do feel differently about my children. One is a preteen girl, the other a kindergarten boy. One challenges me on a regular basis: slamming doors, stamping feet, talking back, and throwing fits. And it’s not the kindergartner.
Gabriel’s at a golden age. When I was pregnant, my friend—who’s the mother of two sons—told me, “You’re lucky; boys adore their mamas.” I see now what she meant. In my son’s eyes, I can do no wrong. Every day, he showers me with kisses and compliments like, “You are the prettiest mommy in the whole wide world,” and, “I love you more than my whole life.” What’s a heart to do but melt?