There is always one in every pack that somehow manages to get to the head of the line. You know the type, doesn’t cause a scene or draw attention, you just turn around and there he is, not only doing something out of the ordinary in a very nonchalant way, but almost leading and directing the remainder of the pack, and you just roll your eyes, and breathe a sigh of relief that you don’t have to deal with whatever situation he is in, or about to find himself in. Except I do.
As luck would have it, I not only married one of those guys, the third time around, I gave birth to one as well. <Cue fear-provoking music>
I should have known. I had heard whisperings from other mothers about “the third child”, but like every parent, I had an underdeveloped “MY kid surely won’t be like THAT” section of the brain, and was confident, a third child would be no different – more or less – from one & two.
I should have known when I went to the hospital to be induced, not dilated or showing a signal sign of pending labor ~ I should have known when I went to the put the hospital gown on, and felt, what I was sure was all vital organs dropping to my toes ~ I should have known when the nurse checked me minutes later, and said I was 8 centimeters and ran out of the room ~ I should have known when the anesthesiologist didn’t answer the page, and I had to carry on without him ~ I should have known when a doctor I didn’t know, who they probably pulled off the street, ran into the room with no time to spare ~ I should have known when they laid the healthy 7lb 8 oz baby boy on my stomach, which at that point could have been a giant Tuna for all I knew, and the Dr. took the time to introduce himself and shake my hand ~ I should have known then ~ But I didn’t.
10 minutes after the truck drove through me, I was sitting absolutely still, unwilling to move, staring straight ahead, like I was waiting for a bus. While Howard & the nurses fawned over the new baby, my sister bent down, leaned her face into mine, and in the voice you save for half dead penguins, said “Can .. I ... get… you.. something”? I remember the concerned “are you going to explode” look she had on her face, as I answered in my “back from the war” voice; “chocolate milk”. The first words my third child, or giant tuna, as may have been the case, heard from his mother’s mouth were “chocolate milk”.
It was at that moment, it dawned on me; the game had changed
Kid # 3 … anyone who has one knows all about the street smart little brother, who is drug to every sibling event from the second they leave the hospital. They learn words, symbols, gestures and ways of life, way earlier than anyone else their age. They get hand me downs, disposable diapers, stained receiving blankets, and pacifiers that have been wiped on pant legs, after falling in the mud. They are the kids’, moms who only have two children politely, stay away from at playgrounds’, and the kids, mom’s with only one perfect little child - RUN from, without looking back.
They are constantly dirty and battle scarred from keeping up with the big kids, they have Mohawks, the strength of Bam-Bam, and spent a good portion of their preschool years naked. They are attentive and adept with the ways of the world around them, they curse accurately and when needed, and can pin point a sibling’s weakness and exploit it as if it were a paying job.
They will be one of the only kids at the elementary school who knows the rules to beer pong, and who is taking who to the prom. They are funny, and lovable, but have the ability to leave without looking back, or as in our case, make a plausible case for why he should be able to attend a Military boarding school in Hawaii for 4th grade. Their friends with “the cool seniors” on face book and have more numbers in their cell phone, than both parents combined.
Nothing good can come of puberty hitting a 3rd child, nothing at all. Their teenage years are spent either laughing hysterically with them or wanting to kill them, and if we make past them, I will let you know what adult 3rd children are like.
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