Much effort, none of it mine, has gone into preparing for this moment. She’s bought and read them countless books about sibling rivalry; taken them to endless sibling prep classes at the hospital; rented many sibling-themed videos narrated by respected authorities—Dora the Explorer for Dixie, Arthur for Quinn; watched with them, every Sunday night, their own old baby videos; and even bought presents to give to them from the baby when they visit him in the hospital. Before this propaganda blitz, our children may or may not have suspected that they were victims of a robbery, but afterward they were certain of it. Hardly a day has passed in months without melodramatic suffering. One afternoon I collected Dixie from her pre-school—to take one of approximately 6,000 examples—and learned that she’d moped around the playground until a teacher finally asked her what was troubling her. “When the baby comes, my parents won’t love me as much,” she’d said. Asked where she’d got that idea from, she said, “My big sister told me.”
From the second installment of a series by Michael Lewis on the birth of his third child, first son.
Oh, grrrr. I have a good friend who did that. She gave birth to twin girls and, when their older brother came to meet them in the hospital, he spent the entire visit opening the mound of gifts awaiting him there “from” his new sisters.
I actually cannot think of another possible antecdote that would more perfectly be the antithesis to my parenting theory.
Kids are remarkably adept at meeting expectations, I find, whether those expectations be good or bad.