The name’s Cloey, and while I might only be 3.5 months old, I have a lot to say. Too bad no one’s listening to me because I’m the third child.
My mom’s busy right now (big surprise). She’s combing my big sister’s hair into a slick bun for ballet class and nattering on and on about how important it is for her to write sentences in her journal since school’s out due to some “teacher’s strike” (whatever that is). My dad’s off kicking the soccer ball around with my brother in the front yard, and my dog, well she doesn’t even care that I exist. Since no one’s paying attention to me, I thought I’d take a break from batting around the stupid toys that dangle above my face on the mat that I’m always lying on (I can’t really control my arms so I’m not sure why they keep torturing me like that anyways). Instead, I thought I’d take over my mom’s “blog” (wtf, sounds like something you’d find in my diaper) and share some thoughts on what it’s really like to be the third child. Spoiler alert: it’s no midnight boob snack.
When I came into this world, I was greeted by 4 sets of sparkly brown eyes, oochy-coochy sounds, and wide grins. I thought I had it made – so much attention, how could I not love it? But things have changed in the last 3.5 months. Ya I still feel the love, but I know it’s only temporary. I could go on forever about how tough my life is, but since I can hear my mom packing up the diaper bag, I’m gonna make this quick.
5 things that suck about being the third child:
1) I often wear my pyjamas all. day. long. I see all of these trendy kid fashionistas rocking it on Instagram. Kids in mini fedoras and distressed jeans, wearing scarves around their necks like they rule the world. And then there’s me, wearing the same puke-stained polka-dotted sleeper that I wore to bed last night. One word mommy: accessorize.
2) I have no toys. I know my sister and brother lived a life of luxury, swimming in a sea of newly-purchased, age-appropriate toys. I, on the other hand, am left to play with a faded excuse for a rubber giraffe (I think it was once one of those awesome “Sophie le Giraffe” things I’ve seen). Oh, and a moist spit up cloth that they tuck into my hand for me to chew on. Thanks mom, that’s what I really wanted (not).
3) I’m ALWAYS in the car. If I have to get buckled into that stupid five-harness bucket seat one more time, I swear I’m gonna spit up in my mom’s face (actually, I might just do that anyways, for shits and giggles, teehee). I swear, every time I’m finishing off a sippa nook nook and getting dozy (there’s nothing like a milk coma. I’m serious, nothing.), it’s off to the car so my siblings can go to school, dance, soccer, swimming, the library. No one ever asks me where I want to go.
4) I spend more time looking at the back of an iPhone than I do looking at my mommy’s face. I’ve made a game of this – I stare and stare at her with a blank look on my face, just waiting. When she glances at me over the top of her stupid phone to make sure I’m still breathing, I put on my biggest smile and reward her with a little giggle, just to show her what she’s missing. It works 2/3 times.
5) I don’t get any peace and quiet. For once, it would be nice to just fall into a deep milk-enduced coma without the shrill shrieks of my sister, or the loud roars of my brother, or the barking (oh the barking!) from my dog. Dude, I just want to take an uninterrupted nap, is that too much to ask for? I mean, I’m a baby, it’s what I’m supposed to do.
So there you have it – my life in a nutshell. And while my family is busy “learning” and “talking” and “eating solid foods” together, I’m going to be studying everything they do, and learning a thing or two from this genius. And when I pop out my first word and take my first step, they had better be ready. That. Is. All.