Mom, who's your favorite?

“A mother's body remembers her babies--the folds of soft flesh, the softly furred scalp against her nose. Each child has its own entreaties to body and soul. It's the last one, though, that overtakes you. I can't dare say I loved the others less, but my first three were all babies at once, and motherhood dismayed me entirely. . . . That's how it is with the firstborn, no matter what kind of mother you are--rich, poor, frazzled half to death or sweetly content. A first child is your own best food forward, and how you do cheer those little feet as they strike out. You examine every turn of flesh for precocity, and crow it to the world.
But the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after--oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down.”
― Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible

Ok, this quote from one of my favorite books may be a little drawn out and verbose, but it does a semi-decent job of trying to explain how mothers feel differently about their kids.
I can remember when I was pregnant with my first daughter. I was absolutely convinced there was no way I could love her as much as I loved my dalmatian, Smokie. That dog was one of my most favorite things on this planet, how could I possibly feel that strongly for anything else?
Within two minutes of my daughter being born, I was like "Dog? What dog? I have a dog?"
Fast forward just thirteen months later and I was pregnant again. I confessed to my friends, "What if I can't love this next baby as much as I love my first one?"
They would just smile and assure me, "Every mother worries about that. Love multiplies, it doesn't divide."
However, one friend wisely told me something I never forgot: "Of course you'll love your children equally. But there will be different times throughout their lives when they're your favorite."
For a couple years we coasted along nicely, a family of four. Then, I was pregnant AGAIN. By now, my abdominal muscles were screaming "Uncle" and my stretch marks were asking themselves, "Should we even bother fading? This crazy bitch just keeps going."
Before our third daughter was born, I worried yet again that I would be able to love a new addition. I was so used to my first two daughters...how would I feel toward a newbie? Would I think of her as an intruder on our little cozy nest of a family?
And as soon as she was born, and I realized that (finally!) one of my kids had my brown eyes, I was head over heels in love.
Just over a year later...are you sensing the pattern?...I was staring at a pregnancy test stick and thinking, "Holy crap." By now, any muscle in my torso threw in the white towel and said, "We give up. Good luck in ever trying to fit in anything smaller than a size 10, and laughing without peeing."
I didn't know if I was going to have a boy or a girl, and I didn't find out until that incredibly painful and vagina-punishing 10 pound bowling ball made its entrance into our lives. Imagine our surprise at finally having a boy. And of course, I secretly worried that I would not be able to love a little boy as much as I knew how to love a little girl.
Silly, silly, silly.
I do love them all, not one more than the other.
But yes, I do have my favorites at times.
And honestly, with a houseful of four kids - all within 7 years of each other, it's not difficult to declare a favorite. Sometimes multiple times during the same day. Sometimes it boils down to whoever butters a piece of toast for me and brings it over, sits next to me quietly and doesn't tattle for a five minute stretch. Sometimes that's all it takes to be my current favorite.
If you ask my daughters who their mother's favorite is, they will answer without hesitation: "Wyatt. Because he's the boy."
That is not entirely true. But he is my baby. And just like the quote from the Poisonwood Bible, there is something about your last child that makes you want to hold on to them and their "littleness" as long as you can. That's why you rock them a little longer at night, and let them crawl into bed with you during the middle of the night - even years after you made their older siblings stop.
For so many years my identity was tied into being a mother of young children. They're still young, but they're not babies any more. Now my identity is shifting into the murky waters of being a mom to teenagers. And trust me on this one, my kids have absolutely zero problem of letting me know when I am far from being their favorite.
So for now, I will continue in my smug confidence that I love all my children equally, without fail.
I will not apologize for declaring them favorites at different times. I will do my best to cherish and remember when they're sweet to me, when they're sweet to each other, when they just want to cuddle with me and whisper secrets in my ear.
I will call them my favorite during that moment and feel no remorse.
Us mothers know how short-lived and fleeting those moments are.
Because seriously? Sometimes they can really be a monstrous pain in the ass.