Friday, August 26, 2011

The Second Child Syndrome

There is no medical definition for this syndrome. Although, it is a distant cousin to Most Dangerous Occupation.

Glaring examples of "SCS" (as I'm now calling it) are as follows:

1) By the time Big E turned one I had all but completed the most beautiful scrapbook detailing every event of his first year on Earth.  I spent countless Sundays scrapbooking away.  I pull this book out every few weeks to admire my craftsmanship.  I love it almost as much as I love him.  Some days maybe even more.  See The Life Cycle of an Epic Temper Tantrum.

For Little E, I haven't even bought the scrapbook.  I keep saying I'm going to start, but it hasn't happened.  I am partially blaming Aunt Yoy as she hasn't started her scrapbook for Cousin Yoy either and we are scrapbooking partners in crime.  I just hope Little E doesn't grow up flipping through the pages of Big E's scrapbook and wistfully wonder what he did to make his mom not want to record all of his first milestones in such a wonderful way.

By the way, if Little E needs an answer to this question, I've got one for him.  C-SECTION.

2) I took Little E in for his one year doctor's appointment. Dr. Yoy rattled off all of these milestones.

Is he pointing?  Is he waving?  Is he babbling?  Is he grasping things?


I had one horrible answer to all of these questions.  I'm not really sure?  I think so?


I'm so busy keeping Big E in line, that sometimes, sweet Little E doesn't quite get the attention he deserves.

I then pull out my list of seven questions for Dr. Yoy.  Five of them were about Big E.  YIKES.

3) Little E and Big E share a playroom.  Therefore, they share toys, books, and whatever else ends up in there. Big E's toys can be inappropriate and sometimes dangerous for Little E.  I am forever pulling random objects out of his mouth.  Stickers, tires, a doll head.  It is such a tricky situation, but I can't take away Big E's toys. I just have to...wait for it...pay attention!

Wait, what's that you hear?  That's the sound of guilt pumping through my veins.
No, it's cool.  Precariously balance yourself on this nasty suitcase that Mr. Yoy just pulled out from a five year stint in the attic.

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