Second Best

I was five years old when I became my parents’ second favourite child. And this came as a complete shock to me. I had been loved and cherished for five years, I was the centre of their world. The arrival of this squalling, red faced interloper turned my world upside down. Where I once had my mother’s full attention, now she was always busy. I was told to be quiet, don't disturb the baby. 

The baby! My brother, Michael, the longed for son and heir. I got that message from the very beginning. I was just a mere girl, not as important as a boy child. And they expected me to love him, to adore him, to ooh and aah over him. Didn't they realise how I was feeling? At first I just pretended. I didn't love him, I wished he would just go away and give me my world back. But, I knew that was what they expected. Five year olds are pretty good at working out the right thing to do.

Don't get me wrong, I was still loved and my childhood was full of joy and affection. And I did learn to love my brother. But the rivalries became fast and furious. I couldn't understand why Michael could never lose. When he took his first steps, I could run. When he said his first words, I could sing whole songs. It was his achievements, not mine, that excited my parents and I didn't understand that.

As we grew older, we became very close, we were an invincible team. It was just the two of us against the world, great friends. But we were always treated differently. Looking back now, I understand that this was based on the gender stereotypes of that age. Boys were expected to be the leader (he was) and get into scrapes (he did). Girls were expected to be miniature ladies (I wasn't), they weren't expected to climb trees (I did) nor get their clothes dirty (a very common occurrence). I couldn't understand why my dirty clothes caused more consternation than his.

In my mind, it became a competition that I tried so hard to win. But it wasn't an even playing field. Watching Michael play cricket seemed to be so much more important than attending my dance school concerts. No matter how hard I worked, I always felt that I was second.

All these things reinforced my view that he was the apple of their eye and I was second best. Michael never realised that, and of course, I never told him. As far as he was concerned, we were equals, he never understood the undercurrents. He was the golden haired boy and just breezed through life.

We were two intelligent children and did well at school. As adults, we both forged highly successful careers, established our own families and lived good lives. Our parents were proud of us both. Photographs and certificates lined the walls of our home. Our children became treasured grandchildren.

My dad has left us now and mum is elderly. As she got older and became infirm, much of the caring fell to me. And I often wondered, was this because I was the daughter? Did gender play a part? Was it because I lived closer and had more time on my hands? Or did I actively work at this, was it because I didn't want to be second best? Did I want her to realise how wonderful I was? Did I want to beat Michael at something? Did I want to be the “best”? These are all complex questions and I don't really know the answers. 

Caring for her was never a chore, I loved her and I was a willing participant and happy to do it. I saw her every day and it became the norm. Over time, it was just expected, and I started to feel that I was being taken for granted. My visits were routine, Michael’s visits were special. I tried not let my heart break whenever she asked when Michael was coming.

Living at home became no longer possible and she now lives in a care home. That move was traumatic, she didn't want to leave her home of fifty years, she didn't want to leave her comfort zone, she didn't want to lose those memories. But it was inevitable. While Michael and I worked together to make this happen and bring her along as gently as possible, I'm sure she thinks that this was my decision because it was too hard to keep looking after her. She has never said this to me, I am making assumptions here and I could be totally wrong about this. I feel guilty that I’m even thinking this way, but my insecurities are always there.

Now my mum is leaving us in a different way. She is suffering from dementia and we can see that this is slowly becoming more and more pronounced. She is losing her memory and forgets so many things. Both Michael and I visit her regularly. Sometimes she is happy to see us. Sometimes she is not sure who we are. She has forgotten that dad is no longer with us and when she remembers, she is heartbroken all over again.

Last week I visited my mother, as I do every day. She was having a good day, she was alert, bright and bubbly. Then Michael arrived for his weekly visit. Her carer said, “Betty, look who’s here”. My mum became very excited. “Michael’s here, that’s made my day!” The carer looked at me and said “what about Catherine”. Mum gave a huge smile and said “I'm sure Michael being here has made her day too!”. Mum was gazing intently at Michael. The carer, Michael and I just looked at each other. What can you say to that?

Was I right all these years? Was I really second best? Am I still second best? And does it really matter? Now, all these years later, I wonder if that was really how it was, or if it was just in my mind. Was it just my insecurity? But whether it was that way or just me, my perception was my reality. I've always lived with that self doubt and I know that it has impacted on everything I've done and how I've lived my life.

I have children of my own now, a boy and a girl. I have worked very hard at trying not to treat them differently, not to love one more than the other. I'm not sure if I've succeeded or if that's even possible. Human nature is a funny thing. I've probably over compensated, making sure my daughter is not overlooked. Perhaps my son feels second best.

I was forty five years old when I told my brother about these feelings of inadequacy and of feeling second best. He looked at me incredulously, amazed that I felt that way. Then he began regaling me with stories from my childhood that demonstrated how much my parents loved me. Stories that I had forgotten or had repressed.

If I take the time to reflect, I know I've had a wonderful life in a family where I was always loved and respected. I love my brother, he is my best friend and I am thankful he’s part of my world. Now that I'm getting older, I know I need to stop being anxious, stop thinking about who was loved the most.

It doesn't matter. There was enough love to go around.