It has always amazed me how different two children in the same family can be. It amazes me even more that those same two children often aren’t like their parents, either.

Our oldest son, Ford, who will be 8 years old in November, is sometimes – perhaps unjustly so – characterized as the “smart, stoic and serious” one. Owen, almost 6, is the “silly, carefree and easygoing” one, who, not coincidentally, often is the only person who can make Ford laugh out loud. When I became pregnant again in 2006 with another boy, my husband, Dustin, and I wondered what other variation of a Smiley boy there could be. With Ford and Owen being such opposites, what role would the new boy fill? It turns out that the new baby, Lindell, now almost 2, found a third and totally different niche: He is the bossy grump who likes to eat (almost constantly) and will likely outweigh and outmuscle both of his older brothers.

A few weeks ago, Lindell picked up a toy dinosaur and called it a “bowwow” (his word for dog). Ford, who once had an existential crisis when he found out that T. rex was not the biggest dinosaur ever found, then promptly read every book he could find about the much larger Giganotosaurus, rolled his eyes at his young brother’s “ignorance.”

“That’s not a dog, it’s a dinosaur,” Ford told Lindell. “In fact, it’s a … let me see [taking the toy from Lindell’s hand] … yes, this is a Deinonychus from the Cretaceous Period. Do you know what period came after the Cretaceous Period, Lindell?”

Lindell snatched the toy from Ford’s hand and pouted.

A vision of the boys in 16 years popped into my head. I pictured Lindell picking up Ford by the back of his shirt collar until his feet are dangling in the air and his history books fall to the ground, and asking him, “Now tell me what comes after the Cretaceous Period!”

I’ve noticed that the differences among my three boys tends to affect how I parent them, too. Ford is Mr. Dependable. I can always count on him to help me in a pinch, and when he tells me a fact – whether it be about the history of the Super Bowl or that Owen just flushed his toothbrush down the toilet – I don’t doubt him. Owen, who is in no hurry to learn how to read or to add numbers, is the one I call for when I see a funny Geico commercial on television. Owen’s belly laugh can brighten an entire room, and he finds humor in almost everything, but mostly whoopee cushions.

When it comes to girls, I know my boys will continue in their pattern of being different. Ford won’t admit to liking anyone besides his mother, who is of course not a boy, although he once conceded that a girl in his class who could spell “artificially” was “kind of cool.” Owen (Dustin likes to call him “Mr. Lova Lova”) always has a girlfriend and once referred to me as “Brown Eyes.” “Hey there, Brown Eyes,” he said while I was cutting his hair.

The differences in my boys even became apparent when choosing Halloween costumes this year. Ford wanted his Jango Fett outfit to be “historically accurate” according to the movie “Star Wars,” and he was disappointed in the “poor design” of the cheap PVC mask. Owen selected a simple Anakin Skywalker costume, paired it with his own sunglasses and belt, and instantly – effortlessly – looked the picture of cool. Because Lindell is too young to really care, Ford and Owen picked his costume – R2-D2 – for him, and, of course, when we put the felt hat on Lindell’s head, he pouted with intense dissatisfaction.

It makes for an interesting household to have three boys who are so different, and I spend a lot of time asking myself, “Where did they get that?” because not one of them is really like me or their father. For the most part, however, I have tried to hide my awareness of the boys’ differences, in a futile attempt to keep everything fair and even. But recently the boys surprised me again, schooling their mother in the importance of celebrating the ways they are not alike:

Ford: “Owen, you never take anything seriously. All you do is make jokes. And you don’t even know how to read!”

Owen (in between breaths blowing up a whoopee cushion): “Yeah, well you’re boring.”

The whoopee cushion was activated, and although Ford was rolling his eyes, soon both boys fell on the ground laughing. Lindell ran from the room screaming, because, yes, he is even dissatisfied with and unhappy about whoopee cushions.

Maine author and columnist Sarah Smiley’s writing is syndicated weekly to publications across the country. She and her husband, Dustin, live with their three sons in Bangor. Sarah Smiley’s new book, “I’m Just Saying …,” is available wherever books are sold. Contact Sarah at sarah@sarahsmiley.com.