They develop slower:
It’s not because they *are* slower. It’s because you don’t have time sit on the carpet serenely listening to Clanad (?!) while you coax and encourage your baby, righting their position around the cushions while they learn it sit for themselves. No.
You’re too busy fishing the pea out of his big brother’s nose, cooking 3 different suppers for 4 different people and stressing about your tax return.
When you have boys you’ll see the inside of A+E. A lot.
The first time we were there this summer, toddler had reached up to the kitchen counter (after a particularly vigorous growth spurt) and pulled a scalding mug of very middle class ginger tea down on himself.
It was a superficial burn to his forearm as it turned out. His little blistered arm was re-dressed everyday at the doctors’ for a week and I scalded myself time and time again for not being more careful, not watching him closely enough.
I won’t break him: I was pretty convinced I’d be rushing to A+E at some point having accidentally dropped eldest on his head, twisted his arm trying to wrangle him into one of those damn baby vests, or broken his little legs by crashing the car seat into a wall as I tried to navigate through a tight space. Luckily none of those things happened and with number two I realise his risk of sustaining any of these injuries is small. He is, however, more likely to have his eyeballs poked out, his cot tipped over and his peace significantly broken by his older brother. Rough with the smooth, my friend, rough with the smooth.
Eldest used to be so chilled. Such a chilled dude. Everyone always said. So happy, so chilled.
You want milk? Yeah? Just have a bit more, ok? Cool. Thanks. You woke early. Just go back to sleep, yes? I’ll just leave you until you do. Great. Worked a charm. Want this toy? Yes? And this one? Great. You don’t want the toy your cousin has, no? No. Good boy. Good, chilled, happy boy.
But wait. 18 months arrived, and with it a completely different specimen. Coinciding with a muggy, light-mornings summer, he’s waking at crack of sparrow fart. He doesn’t go back down. He’s learned ‘the cry’. Not had it yet? Lucky you.
Buy newborn nappies.
Get shit down from the loft. ALL the shit.
Wash vests. Hundreds and thousands of vests.
Shit, where’s the boy? Oh, there he is. Where was I? Oh yes,
What’s he doing under there? What are you eating? SPIT IT OUT! NOW! My god, you’re so gross, that’s yesterday’s lunch. No wait, that means I’m gross, I can’t even clean up properly. I mean, it’s hard to get under the table 7 months pregnant but still.. Right.