Mark KennedyPeople who study birth order agree on some things.
Put all the studies in a box, shake, and here's what falls out: First-born children, experts say, tend to be more driven to academic and career success. Meanwhile, last-born children, they say, are more social and agreeable. (Middle kids and only children have their quirks, too.)
There are a host of birth-order traits that are a bit less universal, of course. First-borns are typically more motivated, more likely to become strong leaders and more inclined to think like their parents. Last-borns are somewhat more rebellious, more artistic and more empathetic.
To sum it up: First-borns are more likely to become president. Last-borns are more likely to become somebody's best friend. Which is a better life path? Who knows?
So what does all this mean to those of us with more than one child? After awhile, all this personality trait stuff begins to sound a little like astrology: "My oldest is such a Capricorn."
In the last year, I've begun to really watch my younger son, who is 8 years old. The edges of his personality are just beginning to form. He's beginning to understand, for example, that Mom and Dad won't be making any more babies, and that there are certain advantages to bringing up the rear. If Son No. 1 is advantaged by being the first horse out of the gate, then Son. No. 2 is content to graze in the infield while Big Brother knocks himself out.
A good example of this personality contrast plays out in soccer.
Our 13-year-old son is ultra-competitive and will play with abandon until he wins, collapses or both. Our younger son -- hereafter "the baby" -- also has some solid soccer skills but is much more likely to avoid unnecessary contact and pick his spots. If you extrapolate that out to adulthood, I think my younger son will be a bit more of a strategic thinker, while I imagine my oldest son's best survival tools will be focus and drive.
I've come to believe that most of the birth-order traits are triggered by parents who, because of inexperience, tend to turn their first-born children into strivers and their youngest children into survivors. A case in point: When I got home from work last Tuesday, my 8-year-old was upstairs in his room, crying. His loud, heavy sobs were clearly beacons for sympathy.
"What's wrong?" I asked my wife, setting down my briefcase.
"Oh, he's upset about the glossary page in the book he's writing," she explained. "Do you want to talk to him? I've tried, and it doesn't seem to help."
My son is writing a book about beluga whales. It's a school project, and he and I have been working on it off and on for several weeks. It's full of hand-drawn illustrations and interesting facts about belugas, and one page in the book is supposed to be a glossary of important words pulled from the text. All the words in the glossary have been bolded throughout the book. It's very professional.
I entered my son's bedroom solemnly. Sitting on the bed, his face was crimson and he was sobbing so uncontrollably he could barely talk.
"What's wrong, buddy?" I asked, brushing his bangs across his forehead.
"Icebergs," he said between sobs and nose blows. "I don't want icebergs in my glossary."
I bit my lip, trying not to laugh.
"What's wrong with icebergs?" I asked, in my soft, kind-Daddy voice.
"Everybody knows what icebergs are-er-er-er," he sobbed, his shoulders bouncing up and down. "They don't need to be the gloss-a-ree-eee-eee."
At this instant a snort escaped my face. I turned my head, trying to swallow a bigger laugh that I felt building in my diaphragm.
"Well, that's easy," I said. "Let's just do a new glossary with no icebergs."
"No-oh-oh-oh!" he sobbed, explaining that to alter the glossary would require unbolding "icebergs" in the text of the book, which would require white-out tape, which would spoil the most perfect book on beluga whales ever produced by a second-grade, American child.
So the problem, in a nutshell, was this: unsightly white-out marks vs. the fear that some future reader would object to "icebergs" in the glossary.
One by one, each member of the family took a turn trying to console him. In turn, each would be worn down and rebuffed with the repeating refrain, "But I don't want icebergs in my gloss-a-ree-eee-eee!"
Despite our sincere efforts, each of us eventually was reduced to giggles. After about 30 minutes of this, my son's angst eventually burned itself out over a bowl of chocolate ice cream.
With first-borns, parents don't laugh at their problems -- no matter how absurd. Instead, we bear down, persevere. With last-borns, on the other hand, we relax and send the message: Perfectionism is a trap, kiddo. Don't take the bait.
What changes between kids?
Experience.
And experienced parents don't try to white-out icebergs.
Contact Mark Kennedy at mkennedy@timesfreepress.com or 423-757-6645. Follow him on Twitter @TFPCOLUMNIST. Subscribe to his Facebook updates at www.facebook.com/mkennedycolumnist.