My Poor, Poor, Well-Adjusted Kids

Now I’m not here to debate whether growing up as a child believing geese are the ultimate rulers of the sky and heavens is a good thing or not. Also that expired medication are little gifts given to us by these geese gods, that can be exchanged for knowledge and baked goods, that without, one would certainly live a life of shame and horror.

No, I’m here to talk about my kid’s upbringing, not mine. My concern is that my kids might be too well-adjusted. Don’t get me wrong, being well-adjusted is a good thing (I’m assuming) but all truly great artists seem to have had a troubling past and/or upbringing.

For example, Kurt Cobain had a troubled childhood that carried over into his career and he has now a legend. And then there was that ballet girl from the movie “The Swan” that was the lead ballet-er. She was raised by a crazy mom.

Those are really the only examples I have but I think that’s enough science to prove I’m right.

I feel like if my kids are too well-adjusted I’m pretty much throwing any chance they have at becoming great artists down the toilet.

On a scale of very concerned to severely concerned, how concerned should I be about this?

Pat:  Wait! I’m going to admit that my senses might be a little blurred, as I’m a coupla’ beers into the evening and I ate some leftover Quinoa of questionable age, but...I am REALLY struggling to understand your first paragraph. I’ve read it multiple time, backwards, forwards, upside-down and with my eyes closed, and it STILL isn’t sending a lot of sense my way. It makes me worry about you a little bit. Is everything okay?

Still...I think I get what you’re getting at. And, yeah, I worry a bit about my own kids’ respective adjustments. They’re just too damn balanced and stable. I’ve thought about driving them out to the woods, shoving them outta’ the car, and telling them to hoof it back home on their own. Struggle to survive. Face their demons. Builds character, y’know.

They might not appreciate it now, but they’ll thank me later. Right?

Christian: I don’t understand what you don’t understand about my first paragraph. Did you not spend part of your childhood believing that the world was run by magical geese that gave us expired medications that you could use to learn knowledge and then exchange for food?

They’re trying to figure whether or not they are looking into a mirror.

The red eyes means they’re magical.

(source)

Pat:  No. I didn’t.

And we don’t need to go into it here, but I really don’t care for geese.

How, exactly, do they relate to your kids and their respective levels of adjustment?

Christian: They don’t, which makes me wonder why you keep talking about them. Just forget about the expired medication toting magical geese Pat. Let them go.

Moving on.

So you’re suggesting abandoning my kids somewhere in the woods? Are you thinking some place like this:

(source)

Pat: That’s terrifying. For reasons we don’t need to go into right now. Don’t ever EVER take your kids to such a place.

Christian: What? Why? What’s wrong with it?

Pat:  The fertilizer, man! Don’t you know what it takes to keep a lawn green like that. Tons of chemicals, that’s what. Chemicals that will seep into the toddler flesh of your childrens’ unshod feet and into their bloodstream, poisoning them slowly and resulting in an inhumanely long and painful death.

Jesus, man...I just suggested you help them experience nature a little bit, not ABUSE them!  

Oh...I get it. It’s not the geese that terrify me. That’s what you were thinking, right?

Christian: So exposing them to chemically charged manure isn’t going to make them artistically gifted? This parenting thing is hard.

So abandoning them in the woods should do the trick? The woods seem so far away though. Can I just abandon them at a Carls Jr. instead?

Pat:  Maybe. Come to think of it, I think you’re right. You might end up with a result the OPPOSITE of what you were hoping for.

For example, I wanted my children to grow up with a love and appreciation of nature, so I would frequently bundle them up, load them into the car, and drive to a place where we could trod along a trail of some sort, usually two miles or so, and occasionally uphill.

Hiking is great, right? Builds character, right? Feeds the soul, right?

Well, it might, but my kids sure don’t think so. In fact, anytime they hear the words, “Hey kiddos, I have an idea…” come out of my mouth, they make up far-fetched excuses to suddenly do anything BUT hang out with me. In the woods. On a trail.

Carls Jr. might just do it!

I promise to pay for any and all therapy this will require.

Christian: OK good. Carls Jr. it is.

I just want to make sure my kids to grow up to be like Kurt Cobain. Minus the heroin addiction. And suicide. And most importantly, the marriage to Courtney Love.

Sorry Second Child But You're Screwed

People will tell you that they love all their kids equally (except for maybe that know-it-all one -- he’s such an ass). This may be true, but all kids born after the first one are getting the shaft. Some parents may not be willing to admit this, but it’s true. Let’s take my household for instance. I love our second baby. She’s female, adorable, and looks just like Telly Savalas. But she really has to go out of her way to impress us.

Smiling? -- Pshh. Seen it. Done it.
Sitting up? -- Congratulations, you are no longer in the bottom percentile of our kids that can do this.
First word? -- It’s about time! Your sibling is now forming sentences.
Crawling? -- Guess what, pokey? You’re the last in our household to obtain this ability.  

These are impressive events for a new child, and typically get memorialized in a baby book of some kind. Assuming they were done by a first child. Our first child’s baby book is like a exquisite set of leather bound encyclopedias that contain every nuance of his first few years of existence. Our second child is now 11 months old and we still haven’t gotten around to buying hers. Don’t get me wrong we do cherish these events. But due to the utter exhaustion that is having two kids, we just cherish them in different ways.

First Child
Me: “OH MY GOD!!! COME HERE!  COME HERE AND SEE THIS!!!  IT’S AMAZING!!!  HE TURNED ONTO HIS SIDE!!! OH MY GOD, IT’S SO FUCKING GLORIOUS!!!”

Wife comes running in with the video camera, hysterically screaming “OH MY GOD!!! OH MY GOD!!!” as she fights back tears.

Second Child
Wife: “She turned over onto her side”
Me: “Shhh,  I’m watching  that cable show about how they move big houses.”

But even with putting aside the whole been-there-done-that factor, there’s also the issue of logistics. With a crazy, maniacal first child running rampant around the house, there just isn’t as much time to devote to the child with the poor timing. Like when the second child is crying because they want to be held or fed (Jesus you just ate an hour ago!), but the first child is currently trying to climb into your stove. You need to handle the stove issue first. Sorry second child but you’re just going to have to wait. Unfortunately this kind of thing happens a lot.  

For the first child we made sure our two cats stayed clear of him due to concerns of him being scratched and the fear of him developing allergies if he was near them too much as an infant. As for the second child, were so busy all the time that the cats are practically raising her on their own.

So as you can see it’s different with the second child. Unless your first child is that know-it-all-ass kid, the second one is going to have a hard time making a name for themselves and getting the attention they deserve. And don’t even get me started on what a pathetic attempt at specialness a third child would be (sorry third children, but it’s true).


Pat:  Not sure if you wanted my input on this one, but given that I’m in a similar boat I figured “what the hell!” By the way, I LOVE Telly Savalas. At least I think I do. Was he Daddy Warbucks in “Annie”? If not, then I LOVE Albert Finney with a shaved head so he looks like Telly Savalas!

Yeah, there’s not really a diplomatic way around this one. Second kids get screwed! I’m assuming that third, fourth, fifth, etc. kids get screwed exponentially worse, as you suggested. My wife’s father is the fourth of nine, and I can only imagine what life was and is like for his youngest sibling. What is the word to describe “eight-times-worse-than-invisible”?

We have embarrassingly fewer pictures of our second child, there is no baby book to be seen documenting her childhood, and no landmark clothes or toys that don’t already have her older brother’s name inked on them. We’re not entirely sure she exists.

But then I remembered that I am a second child (and don’t forget that you’re a third, Mr. Neglected-Pants!), and that it wasn’t all that bad. Sure, I just went through the old family photo albums and was painfully reminded that I take up two pages to my sister’s 43, but...that means that I had to pose for far fewer awkward and drawn-out photos than my sister. I had fewer recitals, fewer moments to document in 35mm film, slides, and Kodachrome™. Further, I had far less pressure to perform, as does my daughter. I can’t imagine the pressure our oldest feels, as though he is the first being on earth to do every act that we witness, and if he doesn’t do it then humankind will likely not advance. That’s more expectation than I could ever endure!

Meanwhile, our youngest just looks on, picks her nose, eats it, and ponders the world of opportunity that opens itself up when there is no pressure to do anything. Everything will be done for you, laid out in advance for you with instructions and without fanfare, so that you can just sail smoothly through everything.

Seriously, should we really put that much emphasis on our first child’s first poopy? After that kind of attention, every subsequent movement can’t help but be inadequate.

Christian: To be accurate though, my siblings and I are separated by a lot more years than the norm which means I’m kind of both a second and first child. You, on the other hand, are a true second child and I’m sure that you would agree that the the resulting tremendous psychological damage is quite apparent.

Pat:  I love how you somehow equate being the third child with being a hybrid of the second and first. Yes, dear friend, 1 and 2 do add up to three, but you cannot isolate your birth order number in order to have TWO birth orders. World don’t work that way, daddy-o!

Tremendous psychological damage indeed! I remember clearly, at age 7, realizing a terrifying potential: given the inherent timing and spacing of our births, I would be the last in my family to die. “Suck on that one, seven-year-old” said the wicked master of realities, and I spun into a pit of loneliness and despair.

But, being the rational and more patient second child, logic soon took over and I applied enough of my inherently superior academic intellect to research life expectancy worldwide, only to find that men live, on average, seven years fewer than women. This anxious 7 year old’s problem was eased! I’m two and a half years younger than my sister, so I’m gonna’ die an easy five years before her. Who’s going to be lonely now?! Second child rocks!