As the third born in my own family, I know the perks and pitfalls of being the baby better than anyone. Yes, the masses dote and fawn over your adorable little personality and thigh folds, but you also get two older siblings within earshot plotting your fall from favor. You get carried around for an obscene amount of time, but once they put you down, it’s all farts to the face and baby doll beheadings.
As we near Sloppy Joan’s 9-month mark in our family, I couldn’t help but notice the third-child tribulations are already turning up.
[1. I mean, who could blame JoJo? Those cheeks are just screaming for a squeeze. 2. This is an actual picture that sits on my desk. Spike was 2 by the time I finally set up professional family pictures and if I’m going for transparency here, it will likely be a few before that train pulls around again. Flashbacks of the desolate pages of my own baby book. For now, a dear friend provided a Post-it Sloppy Joan that makes me smile, and the group whole. 3. Ugh, older sisters. They never want to play with you and when they do, it always looks something like this.]