The following essay was written for Mommybloggers.com by the talented Marisa Cohen, author of Deliver This, a great new book about making the best childbirth choices for you.

I have two daughters, and I swear to you I love them equally. They are both the light of my life, my raison d’être, the cream in my coffee. But you’d never know it from the conversation I had with my old friend Lori the other day. Lori, a postpartum doula who taught me and a half dozen of my friends to breast-feed successfully, hadn’t seen me since about a week after I gave birth to my now-three-year-old daughter. “How are those girls of yours?” she asked when I ran into her at a friend’s apartment.

“Oh my god, you wouldn’t believe it,” I responded, gushing like the shamelessly boastful parent I swore I would never be. “Bellamy is almost finished with kindergarten, and she’s learning how to play the piano, and she’s obsessed with Harriet the Spy, and she said the most hilarious thing the other day…”
Lori listened and then asked the million-dollar question: “And how is Molly?”

“Oh yes, Molly, she’s great too!”

You see, Molly, adorable and charming as she may be, had the terrible misfortune to be born second, and when it comes to bragging, I have to admit that she tends to get overshadowed by her big sister. For one thing, it’s hard to get worked up about your three-year-old singing the alphabet when your five-year-old is explaining the reproductive system of seahorses (did you know the males have the babies? Come on, that’s cool stuff!).

There’s also the been there, done that sense that makes so many of us take our second child’s achievements for granted. When Bellamy was three and she wrote her name for the first time, we thought it was the most brilliant feat ever achieved by a human child. The news was quickly relayed to every relative and friend. Exactly two years later, when Molly held a crayon and scrawled out a lumpy M, we clapped and said “Great job!” and then moved on to an important family debate about whether to have hot dogs or pizza for dinner. The same thing happened the first time Bellamy drew a recognizable picture of a smiley face. Her masterpiece was scanned and emailed across the globe (I’m not exaggerating—my brother-in-law lives in Tokyo). When Molly did the same thing, we hung it in a place of honor on the fridge but didn’t feel the need to share the news with the world.

It’s not that we aren’t proud of Molly, but I think in a way we’re atoning for the over-the-top public displays of pride we displayed after our firstborn’s first words, first smiles, and first time on the potty. Did I mention that Bellamy was the first grandchild on both sides of the family? Every time she took a hesitant little step, it was like Columbus discovering the New World. She was Einstein, Galileo, and Sally Ride wrapped up in one little bundle. When Molly did the same things, we recognized them for what they were, the perfectly normal developmental steps of a healthy child, cause for celebration amongst ourselves, but hardly worthy of a press release.

The funny thing is, everyone in my family—me, my husband, both of my parents—is a second child, so we should all be a little more sensitive about these things. My mom still talks about what it was like to be the shorter, younger sister of a popular older sib. And my dad has spent much of his life being measured against his older brother. In fact, at his fiftieth birthday party, one of dad’s co-workers came up to my then-83-year-old grandmother and said, “Mrs. Cohen, your son is such a wonderful man.” Grandma put a frail little hand on this man’s arm and said, “You think he’s wonderful, you should meet his brother Irving!” I know that sounds like a bad borscht-belt joke, but it really happened!

Will Molly be discussing this lack of parental bragging with her therapist thirty years from now? I don’t know. Maybe the opposite will happen—maybe Bellamy will be on the couch somewhere complaining that she could never live up to all the hype. But I can tell you that I am trying my best to make amends. After writing this and reading it out loud to my husband, we made a pact to brag about the girls equally, which really means toning down the hyperbole about Bellamy.

And I take comfort in this thought: Even though I’m sure my parents fell into the same trap with me and my older brother, I never grew up feeling second best (though I did question my mom about why my brother’s baby book was three times as thick as mine). I think a natural evolution happens with siblings. As a little kid, I followed in my brother’s footsteps: he took violin lessons and joined Little League, so did I. So whenever I managed to squeak out a tune or catch a ball, it was just an echo of what my brother had already done a year earlier. But around fifth grade, I started to veer off on my own. Michael was doing karate, so I joined the drama club, and when I got to crawl around and bark as a dog in the school play, it was something new and different.

I can see some early signs that Molly is starting to chart her own path as well. Just the other day, after Molly assembled a dinosaur puzzle by herself, Bellamy turned to me and said, “Wow, Molly is the best one in our family at doing puzzles. She did that so fast!” See, it takes a wise five-year-old to notice something that us jaded old second-time parents take for granted. Wait a second, does that count as bragging about Bellamy again? Damn.

Check out Marisa's author blog at Amazon, and pick up a copy of Deliver Thiswhile you're there.