BIRTH ORDER BLUES

How to Survive Being the Baby in the Family

Shake it up

Everyone has a crayon stuck up their nose, jamming into their brain. I’d like to talk about my crayon first. Don’t be so sensitive. If you wrote the article first, we’d start with your crayon.

Birth order defines you more than any other characteristic. The oldest child is the boss. They are given the ultimate-corner-office-bullshit-nepotism delegated to the first person who applied for the job. They are often referred to as “my eldest,” which is supposed to justify their floor-to-ceiling windows.

The youngest child is forever referred to as ‘my baby’. Upon arrival, the baby is immediately quarantined to a lifetime in the nursery. I’m the baby and my legs have been sticking out of my crib for decades. It’s uncomfortable.

If birth order were a job, I would have quit decades ago — as soon as I realized my siblings were cleaning up my diapers. I would have said, “God person. This is an unmanageable situation. Put me back in or send me somewhere I’ll be first.”

Oh, the humiliation. How do you live that down? How can someone who’s wiped crap off your tush ever take you seriously? How can someone who’s seen you throw a plate of ketchup against the wall in the White House ever think you have an intelligent thought in your body? It’s tough being the baby.

I thought I’d be obsessed my birth order forever, but then on Tuesday, I woke up middle-aged. I couldn’t remember why I was so pissed about birth order.

Youngest child, schmungest child, I yelled to the Gods of Sequence.

Then, I remembered why I was mad again, and I called the gods back.

Hey shitheads, I yelled. Why have you forsaken me perpetually last?

The gods shrugged, like it hadn’t even occurred to them what a shitty position they’d put me in.

Sounds like a you problem the snarkiest of the gods said.

Then, the memory of my rage faded and I had a eureka moment. I realized my mom hadn’t intentionally birthed me last. She was just as much a victim as I was. She was stuck with a boss and a baby. Poor thing.

How could I be mad at her? I decided to take the high road and forgive her for putting me in this terrible position. The gods thought I was a saint. They gilded my binky.

That’s the great thing about middle-aging. People say you get mellower with age, but it’s only because you can’t remember why you were so mad about everything.

Then, I remembered the crayon.

Again with the crayon, you’re probably thinking. Why am I bringing up a crayon? I haven’t mentioned the darned crayon since the introductory paragraph. How are you supposed to remember what I said in the first sentences?

No need to remember. I’m old too. I get it. Here it is—

Everyone has a crayon stuck up their nose, jamming into their brain. I’d like to talk about my crayon first. Don’t be so sensitive. If you wrote the article first, we’d start with your crayon.

You’re definitely thinking, I thought this was an essay about birth order. What does birth order have to do with a nose impaled by a crayon? What does birth have to do with Crayolas at all?

To answer your question about the connection between birth order and crayons — no, there were no crayons jammed up in my mother's birth canal or floating around in her placenta. Not that she told me. Also, I do not currently, nor have I ever, had a crayon deliberately shoved up my nose.

Why then, you want to ask me, clearly frustrated, do I keep rattling on about crayons?

My answer is Homer Simpson. Homer Simpson had a crayon all-up-in his nose for a lifetime. I can spiritually relate to that. Can’t you? I am Homer Simpson. We are all Homer Simpson.

Remember the episode where Homer got a crayon removed from his brain? Spoiler alert. It turned out Homer was only an idiot because he stuck a crayon up his nose as a child. Once it was removed, he was brilliant, like Lisa.

Homer’s crayon is an allegory for us all. Everyone has a crayon stuck up their nose — something that is keeping us from our inner genius. What crayon is stuck up your nose that blocks you from reaching your full potential? See, I told you I’d eventually get around to you.

My jammed crayon is being the youngest child. Obviously. Being the youngest made me feel helpless, incompetent, and never in the right. Everyone had authority, except me. Wah.

The good news about being the youngest is I’ll always be the youngest and in this ageist world, that’s something. But that’s it. There’s nothing else good about being the youngest.

Therefore, I am declaring a relinquishment. I’m relinquishing my role as the youngest child. I’m building a time machine and altering history. I’m coming out of the birth canal first. I am tired of being a baby!

Spoiler alert. Homer puts the crayon back in and becomes the old Homer. Well, Moe Szyslak, the bartender, shoves the crayon back up in there, but Homer asked him to. Homer doesn’t enjoy being smart because people aren’t very nice to him when he’s smart. They’re wonderful to him when he’s dumb. That’s America for ya.

Thinking about Homer made me think about my crayon. Was I really willing to give up my status as a permanent baby? Yes, I was. People hate babies. They cry constantly. They poop in their pants. I’d like to be the eldest now. I am totally unqualified and I can start immediately.

Thanks, Gary Chapin for being such an awesome content editor.