You're Not the Boss of Me
I had a little lesson in the psychology of birth order today. It started at breakfast with a conversation between the kids. Child #1 initiated the chat based on his current and forcible desire to be in charge, which he demonstrates with infuriating pointing and threats primarily aimed at me. Here's how the exchange went:
Child #1: There's only one boss in this house, and it's me!
Child #2: No, there's TWO bosses in this house!
Child #1: No, one!
Child #2: Two!
Child #1: One!
Child #2: Two!
That's as much as I caught. I left the room to get a cup of coffee and to ponder walking out the back door and not coming back until dinnertime.
After I got over the implication that they had completely ruled me out as boss, I considered what their differing opinions on this matter suggested about their worldview. When Child #1 arrived, the sun, moon, and stars all revolved around him. Everything he did was a miracle worthy of phone calls to grandparents and applause and affection from Mom and Dad. Child #2 entered a very different world, in which the sharing of her parents' attention was a given and the presence of a larger, stronger, louder version of herself was the status quo. She realized from the beginning that she was not generally going to have the upper hand in the goings-on of this particular collection of people, and she rolled with it.
Sure, she knows being boss is a good thing, but she accepts that it's not her exclusive right. Contrast that with her tyrant of a brother. Today, as he was "helping" Grandpa investigate the possibility of removing the stone-and-concrete retaining wall at our rear property line, he held a crowbar menacingly in my direction in a clear power play that landed him squarely in a time-out. As he had proclaimed at breakfast, there's only one boss in his mind.
A scene from the bathtub in which I used one of a mother's prime motivational instruments added another layer to my birth order lesson. The instrument in question? The race. "Who's going to stand up and get their bottom washed first?" I asked enthusiastically. Child #2 took the bait and scrambled to her feet, which threw Child #1 into action too late to win.
As Child #2 stood calmly, Child #1 whined and complained. I asked Child #2 if it was OK for me to wash Child #1's bottom first even though she had won. She said sweetly, "Sure!" When I coaxed a sheepish "thank you" out of Child #1, his little sister smilingly said, "You're welcome." It was a moment that made me wish I wasn't a Child #1 myself.
Child #1: There's only one boss in this house, and it's me!
Child #2: No, there's TWO bosses in this house!
Child #1: No, one!
Child #2: Two!
Child #1: One!
Child #2: Two!
That's as much as I caught. I left the room to get a cup of coffee and to ponder walking out the back door and not coming back until dinnertime.
After I got over the implication that they had completely ruled me out as boss, I considered what their differing opinions on this matter suggested about their worldview. When Child #1 arrived, the sun, moon, and stars all revolved around him. Everything he did was a miracle worthy of phone calls to grandparents and applause and affection from Mom and Dad. Child #2 entered a very different world, in which the sharing of her parents' attention was a given and the presence of a larger, stronger, louder version of herself was the status quo. She realized from the beginning that she was not generally going to have the upper hand in the goings-on of this particular collection of people, and she rolled with it.
Sure, she knows being boss is a good thing, but she accepts that it's not her exclusive right. Contrast that with her tyrant of a brother. Today, as he was "helping" Grandpa investigate the possibility of removing the stone-and-concrete retaining wall at our rear property line, he held a crowbar menacingly in my direction in a clear power play that landed him squarely in a time-out. As he had proclaimed at breakfast, there's only one boss in his mind.
A scene from the bathtub in which I used one of a mother's prime motivational instruments added another layer to my birth order lesson. The instrument in question? The race. "Who's going to stand up and get their bottom washed first?" I asked enthusiastically. Child #2 took the bait and scrambled to her feet, which threw Child #1 into action too late to win.
As Child #2 stood calmly, Child #1 whined and complained. I asked Child #2 if it was OK for me to wash Child #1's bottom first even though she had won. She said sweetly, "Sure!" When I coaxed a sheepish "thank you" out of Child #1, his little sister smilingly said, "You're welcome." It was a moment that made me wish I wasn't a Child #1 myself.
posted by Lisa Strandberg at 10:22 PM
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