Wednesday, June 28, 2006
When you're the youngest, you're the baby... - Rudy Rucker
YESTERDAY was Terzo’s nine-month birthday.
Primo’s nine-month birthday, we’d have had a celebration; I’d have told everyone I encountered, all day long; we might even had had cake. We definitely had portraits taken.
Seg’s nine-month birthday, I’d have told everyone. Also portraits taken, but probably a month later.
With Terzo – wait, is he nine months yet?
Ah, the sad lot of the third child.
BUT he does get some perks from being third.
You wanna chew on the bagel that’s been lying on the floor? Be my guest. Especially if you will stop whining to be picked up.
You wanna crawl around naked, increasing hugely, obviously, the potential for pee on the floors? Go to town. Your potty-training brother has already permanently imbued the carpets with the faint smell of urine. Let’s not even mention the COUCH.
The lady at the deli wants to give you cheese/the lady at the bakery wants to give you a cookie/the Italian store lady wants to feed you biscotti? Ok. Enjoy.
You want to eat five pierogies for dinner, eschewing any and all baby food offered? Fine by me. Especially since with all that starch in your belly, you sleep mostly through the night.
Conversely, I will never let you cry it out, since that keeps everyone awake, whereas if I take you back to bed with me and nurse you, everyone sleeps. Win-win. But which means you probably won't be weaned OR sleep through the night till you're sixteen, at this rate.
You get Motrin (albeit children’s rather than infants’) for your teething pains, Aquaphor for your red butt, and Zantac for your reflux, all without the excruciating debate or incompetence and lack of baby-knowledge that went on with the first two. Because who has time to 1) debate, or 2) deal with a screaming teether for three nights running?
You have two big brothers to entertain you when Mama is busy or not inclined to play; you have umpteen cousins who are happy to hold and play with you at family gatherings; and because it’s pretty certain you are the last grandchild, you are spoiled even more than the first eleven.
True, you may never learn your real name as everyone pretty much always refers to you as “The Baby;” as in, “Will someone see where The Baby is stuck?” “Hello, The Baby! I am happy to see you too!” or “The Baby is chewing on the cable modem, so get him away from there!”
Primo is going to be my tormented, deep, and emotional Goth, stomping around in his big black boots and trenchcoat; Seg is going to be the tomcat jock, nonchalantly charming a different wholesome girl every other week with that sweet yet devilish smile and sincere blue eyes. So when Terzo comes home stoned, with his pregnant, underage girlfriend in tow, I have a feeling I will greet the situation with an equanimity that just would not be possible with a firstborn child.
I’ll let you know in about eighteen years.