As the second-born child in a two-child family, I never really gave much thought to what it meant to be a second born.
After all, it's all I ever knew. While my brother had 18 glorious months to strut about the house with impunity like a proud alpha lion in a poacher-free reserve, I was born into a world where there was always an older sibling around ready to chase me through jungles and deserts for hours and hours until I collapsed from exhaustion so he could tear me apart and feast on my entrails. Metaphorically speaking. Of course, any lion would get mad enough to go chasing after some little antelope if that antelope had just, let's say, thrown a hard plastic football at the lion's face while the lion was busy playing Frogger on Atari. The antelope, younger but always faster than the lion, really ran into trouble when the lion learned how to open a locked bathroom door using a pen or bobby pin.
After that there were a lot of antelope headlocks, noogies and wedgies. Metaphorically speaking.
Anyway, I didn't ever consider how being a second-born affected my life because it was the only way of life I had. I just showed up one day, cried a bit and then started arguing with my brother over who got to drink the bigger glass of juice.
The juice wars ended, by the way, when my brother came up with the devilishly clever "you pour I pick" rule, a system so effective at diffusing conflicts I feel like it could easily be used to solve problems like Israel vs. Palestine or Coke vs. Pepsi in a matter of seconds. It's clear now why my brother became a political scientist specializing in conflict resolution — and why he always ended up with the bigger glass of grape juice.
Now a father myself, I still didn't take much time to ponder what life is like for a second born when my younger son arrived. In fact, I didn't ponder my younger son much at all during his first year of life.
Don't get me wrong — I loved the little guy and would have fought off a bear or Big Mac or any other evil thing to keep him safe, but as the father of the household it usually fell to me to keep my older son entertained while my wife tended to the needs of the newborn. And, if we're being extremely honest, a precocious three-year-old is way more interesting than a newborn baby. No offence, newborns, but it's true. Would it kill you to try making hilariously inappropriate fart noises while singing "Old McDonald" like your older brother does? Do you ever want to take a break from just lying there pooping and sleeping and screaming your face off at anyone who isn't your Mama?
This bias is borne out by the columns I've written over the past few years. For my older son I've detailed such important milestones as the hilarious lengths he'll go to to catch a glimpse of any TV screen within 100 miles of him, his try-to-kiss-stray-cats phase, his timely use of the word "dink" in formal dining situations, his penchant for reading magazines on the toilet and his remarkable ability to keep me sprinting non-stop for the entire duration of any wedding we attend.
My younger son, on the other hand, has basically only been mentioned for his ability to get kicked in the face by a certain member of his immediate family, and for puking. He is actually a pretty adorable puker — I'll give him that.
Now that my younger son has blasted past his first birthday, however, he's making it quite clear that he won't be ignored. Since becoming a father, one of the most amazing things I've encountered is the moment you realize that your first-born child is not an exact clone of you. He has his own brain and personality and probably already knows more about computers than you do. An equally amazing moment, however, is when you discover that your second-born is not an exact clone of your first-born. He has his own likes and interests and brings something entirely new to the family beyond his ability to get sat upon.
My youngest, for instance, is now coming up on 18 months old and he strolls around the house hilariously with his belly thrust out and his hands clasped behind his back like a slightly taller version of Napoleon. He opens my old flip phone and pretends to make business calls, screaming gibberish for 13 seconds, waiting patiently for an answer and then flipping it closed with a "bye."
He says "blesh uu" when I sneeze, screams "Dadji!" when I come home from work and whispers "wuv uu" when I put him to bed.
He's the best. Well, tied for the best. And now that he's got my attention I realize that he's going to grow up to be a clever antelope able to face down whatever wedgies life throws at him. Metaphorically speaking.
