The other day my oldest informed me that he had outgrown his tennis shoes and needed another pair. He was desperately trying to convince me that hean expensive pair of Air Jordans. My youngest was standing nearby and sweetly informed us that the only pair of shoeshave discarded. All three of my kids lament their birth order and believe they each somehow got the short end of the stick. I do my best to assure them that there are pros and cons to every slot.
Being the youngest and smallest — therefore the most vulnerable — he is an easy target for big brothers to pick on. Plus, it feels like the older two get more advantages than him. “Why do they get to stay up late?” our youngest said to me the other night as his brothers were playing in the other room while he had an early bedtime. “It’s just not fair!”
I tend to infantilize him a bit more. With the other two, I knew there would be another baby, and that it wasn’t my last chance to do all baby things. I think I am hyper aware that this is my last baby, our last set of firsts, so I’m trying to milk every last bit of this “baby-ness” that I can.