Looking through the photos in my older brother’s baby album when I was growing up, I sometimes would ask my parents if I could see mine next. “It’s somewhere in the basement,” my mother would answer vaguely, though I could never seem to find it.
Only many years later, when my wife patiently explained that I should stop looking, did it dawn on me that she was right, there was no baby album, and for a moment I was stunned before I began to laugh at my naiveté.
Ah, second children. Or third or fourth, etc. It’s not that we’re neglected or not loved and cared for like our first-born siblings, because we are. But it’s just, well, different. Trust me, I know firsthand, not only as a child but later as a parent myself, and now as a grandparent.
It’s never bothered me that a number of people in my hometown still call me by my brother’s first name — sometimes even when the two of us are together. One Shabbat, while visiting my mom, I was called to the Torah by my brother’s Hebrew name in our childhood shul. It’s kind of endearing, and I am proud to be his kid brother, though at my age I don’t often associate myself with “kid” anything.
That’s the beauty, and challenge, of sibling relationships though. They are permanently fixed, impervious to time. So if you thought while growing up that your older sibling was bossy toward you, it’s likely you’ll still feel that way when you’re 86 and he or she is 89, you should both live and be well.
Almost 16 years ago, when my oldest son got his driver’s license, I wrote a column back in Baltimore about the significance of this American rite of passage. In Jewish law, a youngster may be considered an adult at bar or bat mitzvah. But in our modern society, it’s not until the moment you see your child drive off behind the wheel of a car for the first time that you realize they are, if not adults, at least not kids anymore, either. There’s a catch in your throat that reminds you something has changed in the parent-child relationship imperceptibly but irrevocably. And once they turn the corner and are out of sight, you know in your heart that you’re the one who has to grow up too.
Anyway, I wrote that column and then a couple of years later when my second child passed her driver’s test, she turned and asked me, “Well, Dad, are you going to write a column about me, too?”
Oh my. What could I tell her? That I had already explored that subject and had nothing more to say? That may have been true, but I worried she might interpret it as “I wrote about your brother because he is dearer to my heart and you’re just an afterthought, kid, whatever your name is.”
I tried to explain that I had to keep coming up with new ideas and topics for my column, and that I would try to find something special to write about her. She was very gracious and understanding about it. I think.
And sure enough, when she graduated from high school and went off to Israel to study for a year, I wrote a piece about that step along the way to maturity, and the loosening of the parental reins.
It was just for her, that column — or had I written one when my older son went off to Israel, too?
Hmmm. Well, in any event, what brings these thoughts to mind now is the recent birth of our second grandchild, almost a year after the birth of his cousin.
At the time I wrote a column here pondering my new identity, since grandparents actually get to choose a name for themselves. I liked Coach, but my kids told me to “grow up, Dad,” so I went with Zaidy. (They’re all good, of course, the grandparent names, though my daughter-in-law has started referring to me lately as Coach Zaidy, and that makes me smile.)
So after our daughter gave birth, several family members and friends asked if I were going to write another column about having a new grandchild.
On the one hand I felt I’d explored those feelings only a year ago. But didn’t this new little person deserve some recognition, too, since every child is a universe unto himself? After all, our rabbis taught that “each child brings his own blessing into the world.”
What’s more, I have had the joy to witness the blossoming of our daughter’s deep maternal instinct. From the moment she gave birth, she has taken to her new role with a wellspring of love and a great sense of humor, two qualities that will go far in parenting, along with having a devoted husband.
So this one’s for you, Aron Binyamin, the sweet addition to our family, named for two of his mother and father’s loving grandfathers, who would be so proud of their offspring today. May you grow to be a source of pride to your parents, community and people.
And when you get older and look for your baby pictures in our house, may the albums be just as full of shared and tender moments as your “big” cousin Asher’s.
Gary Rosenblatt is editor and publisher of N.Y. Jewish Week, where this column previously appeared.