Tess Stimson
It’s tough being the favourite child
‘I was terrified of repeating the pattern when I became a mother myself ’
Like all small children, I believed the world revolved around me from the moment I was born. When my sister Philippa arrived just before my second birthday, I assumed she was my newest toy, provided purely for my entertainment.
Whereas I had been an easy baby, who became a hard-working, self-motivated child, she was a sickly infant who struggled at school almost as soon as she started. So as we grew up, it felt perfectly natural to me that I was the star of the family – my right as firstborn.
By the time our brother Charles arrived, when my sister and I were eight and six, my position as apple of my parents’ eye was so firmly established that neither sibling ever sought to challenge it. It was as if they’d bought into the family mythology: I was the golden child, and that was how it was meant to be.
But being the golden one wasn’t always much fun. My brother and sister saw me as part of the adult establishment, “one of them” rather than “one of us”. I was never part of the conspiracy when they got up to mischief, cast instead in the role of enforcer and upholder of law and order, even when I wanted to rebel.
They often complained about how much easier I had it, how lucky I was that in my parents’ eyes I couldn’t put a foot wrong. What they didn’t understand was the intense pressure that put on me, not to let them down.
Now a new study suggests those who are considered the “favourite” child pay a high price for their preferred status. Researchers from Purdue University in Indiana found that being the target of sibling rivalry, and feeling a heightened obligation to please parents, both take their toll.
“There is a cost for those who perceive they are the closest emotionally to their mothers, and these children report higher depressive symptoms,” says the study leader, Professor Jill Suitor.
This certainly chimes with my own experience. As a child, I may have enjoyed my favoured status, but as an adult I felt burdened by it. Conscientious and academic at school, I delivered numerous triumphs that made it easy for my parents to approve of me, graduating from Oxford into a traineeship with ITN. I found it impossible not to link that approval with my success and became terrified of letting my parents down.
The weight of expectation that comes with being the favoured child can feel like conditional attention – you believe it’s necessary to keep reaching impossibly high standards in order to avoid falling out of favour.
Meanwhile, freed from the fear of disappointing our parents, my sister did what she liked – she drank, smoked, dated unsuitable men. And the more she rebelled, the more I believed I owed it to them to be the responsible, sensible one. I hoped that if I was just good enough, responsible enough, accomplished enough, I could compensate for my sister’s behaviour. I knew how much it troubled my mother, who confided in me that she blamed herself. I felt I had to be living proof that they were good parents.
Psychologists recognise this behaviour, dubbing it Hero, or Responsible Child, syndrome. The Hero works hard to make the family succeed, through being a good student and hard worker. Overly responsible, we’re the people-pleasing child that the parents hold up as a role model. We always follow through, regardless of what is asked of us, and though we feel duty-bound to dazzle and impress (some might say, show off), we often have trouble having fun.
However much we might moan, the rewards of being the golden child are so intrinsic to our self-identification and self-worth that they’re impossible to give up. Growing up as the star of the family left me with a lifelong need to be the centre of attention – and an expectation not just of unconditional love, to which every child has a right, but of unconditional hero worship, too.
My first marriage was to a man who could never hope to make me feel as cherished and beloved as my father did. Perhaps it is little wonder that it began to crumble after eight years – and that I couldn’t bear to tell my parents. We were almost divorced before I finally came clean. My guilt at letting them down felt even worse than the guilt I felt towards my own sons, then aged five and two. My sister, who has never been jealous of me, was incredibly kind and sympathetic. Only later did she admit to an understandable
Schadenfreude that I had finally fallen on my face.
Still, I found it hard to shake my craving for success. Whatever I attempted, I felt I had to do it best, so when my mother died very suddenly in 2001, aged just 59, I took on the matriarchal role in the family. I had no time to grieve my loss, too busy supporting my father through his. I made myself responsible for my sister and brother, attempting to parent them in a way that simply wasn’t feasible or reasonable now that we were fully grown. When they failed to respond in the way I wanted them to, I became resentful.
Eventually, the stress and strain took its toll, and I started suffering severe panic attacks. It took several years of counselling to learn to step back and allow my adult siblings to take responsibility for their own lives.
Having been an over-achiever all my life – tougher on myself than my parents would ever have dreamed of being – the hardest task I’ve ever faced is not applying those same exacting standards to my own performance as a mother.
Knowing what it’s like to be the preferred child and the damage it can wreak, both on them and those viewed as second-best, I was terrified of repeating the pattern when I became a mother myself. I can see it’s all too easy to prefer the child who reflects well on your parenting skills, rather than the one who makes you feel you’ve got it all wrong.
Still, like 65 per cent of mothers, and 70 per cent of fathers, according to a study carried out by the University of California in 2005, I have to confess to having a secret favourite.
The difference is that each of my three offspring is quite certain they’re the chosen one. And as long as they continue to think that, I’ll know I’ve done something right.