Playing favorites

My kids have been asking me, “Who’s your favorite?” One of them even gave me a picture frame with the words “from your favorite son” on it.

So I guess I should let them know which one gets this coveted role.

There’s part of me that would love for them to constantly compete for this by obeying my every whim or making my life easier, but that’s probably not the best parenting. There are some messed up examples in history of dads and favorites.

But I probably should go ahead and bestow this honor.

One of them thinks that because he’s wired like me, he’s the favorite. He’s right. He likes to organize things, he operates on a schedule, he likes to get things done.

The other thinks that because he always gives me a hug, he’s the favorite. He’s right. He’s the one who feels everything strongly, and senses what others are feeling. He can sense when a day has been less than ideal, and provides the right words of encouragement or a simple hug to make things a little better.

And the other thinks he’s the favorite because he can always get a smile out of me. He’s right. He has his mom’s personality, makes friends easily and enjoys life. Regardless of our differences, we share a love for movies, superheroes and fried chicken.

So congratulations, boys. I have a favorite. It’s you. And you. And you.

The reality is that I have lots of favorites.

I don’t just have one favorite book. I have many. I don’t just have one favorite song. I have many. I don’t just have one favorite meal, or movie. I have many.

I am okay with having multiple favorites, because I love each one for different reasons.

Now, could somebody clear the table, please?