There’s a new brand of crazy in town; the second child. Bugger this middle child shit, second children are sweeping the nation. With their crazed antics. Turning parents’ hair grey. Fraying nerves left, right and centre. All with a cheeky grin and a sass mouth.
In honour of my littlest lady (because, we ALL know we have to be equal with all our children. I don’t want to be chipped for featuring one not the other, you know), I’ve been conducting some market research into the second child. And by market research, I mean whinging to all and sundry “holy shit! My kid is CRAZY! So completely different to her big sister” and then receiving knowing nods, sympathetic eyes, gentle pats on the shoulder and a “yep, my second is a crazed nutter too”. Solidarity. #fistpump So by my really super duper, extensively and scientifically validated market research I have come to a conclusion. There is a syndrome for children that come after the firstborn. I’ve aptly named it “second child syndrome”. Oh yeah, I’m all edgy with my naming of said syndrome.
*NB: It must be noted that this syndrome only applies to our own offspring. It doesn’t apply to us in our own sibset. Oh no no. Because we are awesome and we don’t succumb to stereotypes. Also covering my ass for any second children out there reading this and thinking ‘wtf’.
Having a child is a game changer. No doubt about it. If you believe the Huggies and Johnson and Johnson ads, parenthood is clearly all squishy cheeks, beautifully soft skinned loveable lads and lasses, with perfect Aryan features (what is WITH that?), running around in slow motion, giggling and joyous, while Mum with perfectly coiffured hair (well maybe a single strand down around her face, because she is clearly an everyday mum), smiles lovingly as she scoops her little darling off the ground to change their nappy, which probably smells like unicorns and love. Sounds divine. I’m in.
It’s high noon. The sun is shining through the windows, the tumbleweeds are floating through the hallway (they really are. I haven’t vacuumed in ages. I know, I know). I’m at one end, Miss DP is at the other, trigger fingers at the ready. Eyes, narrowed to slits, staring each other down. This hallway ain’t big enough for the two of us, little lady.
You NEED to get dressed. Your cat dress is in the wash. Your Elsa costume is freaking brown with dirt dude. Pick something else…..!!
And I’m waiting. Waiting for the trigger to fire from the mouth of a 4.5 year old…..
BUT I can’t! My castle is broken. The witches have taken it over. And Betsy doesn’t like shoes.
Well… Wait. What? Did I just blank out for a microsecond and miss something? Did someone smuggle LSD in my coffee? Or did I just watch an episode of ‘In the Night Garden’ and not realise? No. It’s just 4 year old logic. Legit.