When we decided that we wanted to have a second child, we knew that–since she had been an only child for over four years–it would be quite an adjustment for Clementine to make. Still, I held out hope that all her years of “only-ness” would have at least given her an appreciation for all of the advantages that come with finally having another kid voice in the house; if nothing else she would have another voice of “reason” when it came time to decide things such as where to go on vacation (Disneyland, always), where to stop for dinner (McDonald’s–again, always), and what to watch on TV (all ‘toons, all the time). In my naivete, I even imagined a time in the future when the two of them would sit down together as friends, perhaps with Clyde tucked snugly into the crook of Clementine’s arm as Clementine lovingly read him a bedtime story.
Of course, the years of assault and battery that followed (on both sides) quickly put an end to that fantasy–or, at least, I thought they had, until the other night when it seemed that my vision had finally come true: There they were–together, on the couch–and, just like in my fantasy, Clementine had one hand around a book and the other around Clyde. Unfortunately, upon closer inspection it was revealed that Clementine’s arm was only around Clyde’s neck so that she could hold him steady long enough to pummel him with the book. It was then that I realized that, while what we had been hoping to give Clementine was a lifelong friend, what we had actually ended up giving her was something much more valuable: a lifelong nemesis.
What could possibly be more enriching than having your very own archenemy? After all, where would Superman be without Lex Luther? Sherlock Holmes without Professor Moriarty? Brooke Shields without Tom Cruise? The centuries have proven that there is just something about having an archenemy that inspires people to greatness (or at least elevates them up from the realm of infomercials); this is why, in the interests of giving my children the very best possible shot at world domination, I have now decided to start playing favorites.
I know, I know: this goes against every bit of advice given out by all contemporary parenting books, but what those books fail to take into account is that I’m not trying to create the perfect child here, but rather the perfect superhuman. Just thinking about the bennies of having my very own evil overlord in the family is enough to make my head spin: Forget about the cars, jewelry, and vacations–I could get to rule over my own continent.
And the best part is that to get there I won’t have to change my parenting style one bit; after all, nothing I’ve done in the past five years has done a thing to disabuse my children of the notion that our house operates under a continual pall of inequality. (I figured out a long time ago that even if I could somehow manage to suck up every single molecule in the world into a giant vacuum cleaner and painstakingly divide them out again into equal piles, they would still complain about the other receiving preferential treatment. “Her molecules are bigger than mine.”) The way I see it, I’ll just continue on as before, knowing that whatever involuntary body tics I throw in one or the other’s direction will be more than enough to keep the stew of resentments simmering; with any luck by the time I’m sixty the fierce pressure cooker of competition will have turned one of my children into an arch villain bent on world domination–all I’ll have to do is sit back and await my continent. All I can say is that I’d better get a bigger one than my husband.