Unashamed. A 3 year old in diapers.

I had Adelyne and instantly she became President of the United States.  Standards were set.  Structure was given.  Discipline was doled out.  And life for my Little Miss Firstborn became hard.

As life usually is for firstborn children.

They write so many books on birth order, but you really don’t need to read them because—if you take a look at your own family—you will most likely see the exact thing that they write in those books.

On occasion you have the firstborn with the spirt of the middle and vice versa, but for the majority of all of the wonders in the world, there is an order that is commonly stuck.

And that’s the way it goes.

My sister said to me once, “Do you remember having to fight to wear pantyhose (those were the “in” thing when I was a teenager), or high heels, or makeup, or to go on dates?”

And I said, “No.”

She replied, “You are welcome!”

You see, big sister had to fight the battle for life for me.  For my brother.  For all that followed in her footsteps.

I simply had to walk the beaten down path.

I live in a farming village and right now you can see the path of the beasts.  (Meaning deer that the farmers sit in the fields trying to kill early in the morning hours, as I experienced yesterday as I walked my dogs and they unknowingly spooked a deer toward the hunter before his rifle rang out.  Poor deer trying to escape the dogs ran into a far worse fate than a couple old and slow mutts.)  Anyhow, back to my point, you can see where the deer lie.  It pushes the wheat down and leaves a mark.  And it makes it easy to know where to go — because the path is already paved before me.

My sister is that deer.  She had to be the one traversing life before her following siblings duo, and she fought her battles.  We were the spoils of her victory, my brother and I.

And now that I have 3 children, I see it.

My daughter, my eldest, is one of the greatest kids I will ever meet, but I am so ridiculously hard on her.

She is the one that came first into the world to forge ahead of the world and become great!  And, in order to do that, I must watch everything she does and make sure she does it right.  Right?

Wrong, but ah well.  I’m learning with my other two.

As evidenced by the fact that my 1-week-3-year-old (did you follow that) just barely “lost” his pacifier a day ago and TODAY of all holy days actually went pee-pee and poo-poo on the potty for the FIRST TIME EVER!  (I shall not spoil the grand with the mention of the multiple accidents around the house all day 😉 ).

Oh, that’s not all, folks.  His still ONLY drinks his milk from a bottle.  YEP!  A bottle.

And, nope.  Not getting rid of it any time soon.

If he was my firstborn, I would be AGHAST with myself.  I would be SHAMING myself.  I would be EMBARRASSED to go in public.

With my middle, however, I’m like, “Oh, yes.  That’s my son, Maxwell.  How old is he?  Why 3!”  (As he is sitting in his stroller with his stinky diaper, pacifier, Linus-style blanket, and bottle of milk).

I am unashamed.  I even smile and wave as I walk—back straight head held high—away 😉

What?  Oh yeah.  There’s another.

See, the 3rd.  It’s like, “She’s here.”  What’s that?  Oh—yes, she’s still nursing.  How often?  As often as she wants.  She is at the point where she is pulling at my shirt and shouting “BOOBIE!”  And I just pull her hands down and say, “Wait!”  Where she then promptly runs off and begins to play on her tricycle.  YES—I said tricycle.  Or I fold, sit wherever I am, and give the baby WHATEVER THE BABY WANTS!

Yep.  It does appear likely that I will make the TIME cover (you know the one of which I speak, right?!).

And, honestly, you know…If I ever am chosen for that cover, I might actually pose proudly.  Because, after all, I’m 3 down and learning (THANKFULLY) to be unashamed!

I wish the same CHEERS to you, all mothers everywhere.

Hear, hear!

With 3 kids, which kid gets lost in the midst?


It tears my heart to pieces to say it—but with three kids the MIDDLE does get lost in the midst.

And this is a MIDDLE child speaking!

I swore I would NEVER forget the middle…Until I had the older one in school and one million activities that required much attention.  Don’t forget the fact that she goes to school fully submersed in a foreign language (a language some declare the MOST difficult language in the world—others rank it in the Top 7 most difficult languages in the world)—POLISH!  Don’t forget that I make her do oodles of English work at home.  Don’t forget she is gifted.  She reads a ton.  She can sit and write a book in one day and would like for me to then plop myself down and illustrate it for her.  Don’t forget SHE WAS an only child for 6 and 1/2 years.

The Middle…Break my heart for my middle.

My Baby—my little Max in the Middle was only 11 months old when I got pregnant with Belly Josephine!  I immediately started spotting.  Cramping.  And then bleeding.  Which meant that Max in the Middle got put down, tossed crackers for lunch, and left behind.

I could hardly function—much less take care of a wee toddler.

Then the pregnancy, Belly Josephine, got really bad.  Like she decided at 30 weeks my belly was not 5 Star and she wanted out of there.  Which really put me on my back.  Feet up.  Staying still.

The Middle.  Break my heart for my middle.

Of course we made it to the end—HALLELUJAH!  But that meant the new baby was here.

Oldest has to have attention.  She has school, and assignments, and sports.

Baby has to have attention.  She needs extreme protection and sleep and food.

The MIDDLE can live off of crackers and Elmo.

And still seems to…

Ah the middle.  You would have thought that because my middle is the one that has had to fight the hardest in life to live that I would pay MOST attention to him.

But I seem to be the very stereotypical Momma.  I realize that the oldest achieve much because of the attention that they have always garnered from the start…

I see that the youngest get so much loving because we don’t want the baby phase to ever end…

And I see my middle on his favorite chair watching Elmo.

Over and over and over again.

Then I wonder why he throws a fit when I turn off the TV.

Poor Middles…

Now I better understand Me!