In our household, we often joke that if our youngest child, Lily, had been our first, she certainly would have been our last. It’s a humorous sentiment we share while discussing her spirited nature.
Interestingly, we used to think our oldest, Oliver, was a handful. We often lamented about his boundless energy and restless nights. However, after welcoming our third child, Lily, our perspective shifted dramatically. In hindsight, Oliver seemed practically angelic compared to her vibrant antics.
Now, let me clarify: this isn’t a reflection of any dislike towards Lily. Quite the opposite—she’s one of the most entertaining little people I’ve encountered. Her zest for life is unparalleled, but it’s paired with a fierce determination that can be exhausting.
She’s the little whirlwind darting toward the church pulpit each Sunday, with me in hot pursuit, hoping to prevent her from mashing the organ keys. She’s the one who can’t resist tugging at the faux plants in the waiting room or sneaking off to type on a computer, causing havoc in a poor patient’s file. At the grocery store, no matter how far I park the cart from the shelves, she somehow manages to grab a jar of spaghetti sauce and send it crashing down.
Instead of throwing tantrums, Lily simply moves on to the next adventure. Just a few weeks ago, she was sent to the preschool office for refusing to participate in an activity. When her teacher, Ms. Carter, encouraged her to engage, Lily boldly called her and a few classmates “losers.” This is preschool, mind you, and she’s the youngest in our family yet was the first to get sent to the office. I’m baffled where she learned that term, as we don’t use it at home.
When I share these escapades with other parents, I often hear, “It’s always the third child.” They follow up with their equally amusing stories of their own third kiddo’s escapades. Perhaps your third is a little angel, but I’ve heard enough tales to know there are many parents out there who can relate, keeping one eye on their child while reading this.
While I’m not a child development expert—I’m more inclined towards literature—I’ve started to wonder if Lily’s behavior might reflect my own parenting evolution. A few weeks back, she stumbled and scraped her knee while running to play. I scooped her up, cradling her against my chest as she sobbed. In that moment, I couldn’t help but reflect on how many of these tender moments we have left.
Although I hated to see her in pain, there was something beautiful about her smallness, the way she clung to me, knowing I was her safe haven. I pondered when my older two last sought comfort in such a way, and the realization hit me that those moments had slipped away gradually.
So I gave Lily an extra kiss and carried her back to the playground, cherishing that fleeting warmth. As I navigate parenting in my mid-30s, I find myself more sentimental and patient. I’ve learned to let many of her “wild” moments slide, knowing they won’t matter in the grand scheme of things.
Having fewer hands available has allowed Lily to explore and develop more independently. She’s a bit more free-spirited than her siblings, and I’ve become more accepting of her quirky behavior. While I often recount her escapades, I wouldn’t change a thing about her or the parent I’ve become.
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In summary, the youngest child often embodies a mix of exuberance and mischief that challenges parents in unique ways. Their spirited nature can sometimes lead to chaos, but it also offers precious moments of connection and growth.