By Nature of Comparison

In general, child comparison makes me ill. When mothers of kids the same age get together, it seems to be natural instinct for many of them to size up another's kid in relation to their own. You can kind of see the wheels in their heads turning feverishly, taking notes, as they shoot all kind of questions at the mother of the short, round-faced competition:

How old was she when she started walking?
How long as he been talking like that?
When's his birthday?

I get that last one a lot lately. Ariel's quite the little comprehensive chatterbox, and his verbal aptitude became plainly apparent to the other parents in the class at his Passover recital. Basically, the other kids sat silent in their parent's laps while mine sang and shouted the entire program, word-for-word, in two languages. It was a little embarrassing, actually, because suddenly all of these moms and dads who'd barely spoken a word to me the entire year were positively staring at me, Ariel, and then in turn, their own children, some sucking contentedly on pacifiers and bottles.

The class recital turned into The Ariel Show, and I've been getting the questions ever since at morning drop-off.
Did you practice the play at home?
No.
Oh.
When's his birthday? Is he three yet?
September.
Oh.

I hate it. It's stupid and awkward and I don't know why these mothers insist on having The Comparison Conversation. They don't even do it casually by talking to me about anything else. They just look at Ariel, look at me, and launch into the "When's his birthday?" nary a Good morning! lead-in.

And it makes me supremely uncomfortable. All kids are different, develop different skills at different rates, and, (serious developmental-delay issues aside,) I think they generally all catch up to one another eventually. And even if they don't. So the heck what? No good can come of
that When's his birthday?

I back out of these discussions, of those mothers' penetrating looks, as quickly as possible, and with no reciprocal questions, with an excuse about having to get to work. And I try to never indulge in the comparison thing myself.

Except...

Except when it comes to obedience. Because although I wouldn't trade my kids for the world, and although they are generally as well-behaved as most people expect from boys their ages, I do occasionally wish Elan and Ariel considered my demands of them more than polite suggestion. More than mere recommendations that they could also - in equal measure of both importance and likelihood - simply ignore.

With other children, parents and teachers, my kids are lambs and never doubtful of rank or authority. But I, apparently, don't pose much of a threat to them. Good and bad, I suppose.

Mostly bad. I think I'm a bit of a joke to them. A lovable joke, but funny nonetheless. I guess I kind of expect more.

So a week ago, we were invited to eat shabbos dinner with a family in the community who is quite famous for their ten-going-on-eleven perfectly behaved children (nine of whom are boys). And not perfectly-behaved in a freakish sort of manner - these children are just delightful and friendly, yet kind, polite, and helpful. Like, every day. In every situation.

I had to see it to believe it. And see it I did: at dinner, seven boys (two weren't home) and one little girl sat lined up neatly at the table, the older ones helping the younger fill their plates & clean up spills, others making trips to and from the kitchen with their mother to serve soup and clear at the meal's end.

There was - G-d's honest truth - NO fighting. NO teasing. NO rib-poking, NO climbing under the table to remove guests' shoes and tickle their feet (that is, except for Ariel. I was extremely proud, as you can imagine). As we ate, they told their parents about school, about their friends. They made jokes. But not one picked on another.

I was in shock. Elan was almost completely silent throughout the night - which isn't really unusual for him in an unfamiliar setting - but that night he did a lot of staring. He watched the other children steadily with an open-mouthed, dumbfounded expression, as if they were a zoo exhibit (or a new Caillou episode).

The next day, I was telling our lunch company that it was true, that those kids really were as amazing as their reputation, that I had no idea how their parents did it.

"I've seen them at shul, the dad's not real critical or anything," a friend added.
"He doesn't have to be!" I marveled. "Those children do the right thing because they want to! They're happy and everything, not beaten into submission."
"It's gotta have something to do with genetics."
"Yeah, but combined with stellar parenting, I think."
"Those two should at least write a book! When you've got an anomaly like that..."

At some point during the conversation, Elan sidled up next to me, and stood there, listening to every word, my arm wrapped subconsciously around his shoulders. When the topic shifted to something else, he turned to me and said, for my ears only, with a big smile:

"I know what you're flinking. You're flinking you WANT those kids!"

"Oh, Elan," I sighed. "I don't want any kids instead of you. But I do want you to ACT like those kids, maybe just sometimes. Would that be so hard?"
"When we were there, at their house, I just stared-ed at them the whole night," he replied, surprising me with precocious self-awareness. "I just couldn't stop looking at them."
"Yeah, I noticed. Why was that?"
"I was just feeuling shy. I didn't know them."

Or anything like them, I thought.

When, on Friday, Elan covered Ariel in mud - I'm talking head-to-toe, caked-in-the-ears-scalp-and-nostril covered - I did a fair amount of hollering, then sent him to his room for a well-deserved time-out, followed by a bath. As I helped him undress, utterly frustrated, I sighed again. You need to level with Elan, rather than criticize, so I decided to let him know how I felt.

"Elan, when I tell you not to do something, I'm not trying to take away the fun in your life. I'm just trying to make you a better person. You're a very good person, but as your mommy, my job is to try and make you even better, all the time."

As usual, he didn't appear to have been listening, but at this remark he met my eyes suddenly.

"Better like those kids at that house we ate at last week?"

Wow. Did I need to be careful. I caught myself.

"Nope. Just like you, but better behaved. That's all."
"K."

That night, all I could think was: When is his birthday? When's his birthday? Is he three yet? Did you practice at home?