I am an oldest child. The oldest child and a girl, to be exact. Do you know what that means?
That means that in high school, I bought my own cell phone at a garage sale. It did not have an antenna, so I fashioned one out of tinfoil (like MacGyver) that I kept in a hand-me-down purse. Each time I wanted to use the cell phone that I bought with the plan that I paid for, I had to whip out my trusty tinfoil antenna and hope for the best.
Contrast that image with that of my youngest sister, the baby of the family. She enjoys what the rest of the family fondly refers to as “Mama money.” The cell phone (that she did not buy) with a plan (that she does not pay for) takes better pictures than most professional photographers — no tinfoil required. (To my sister, if you’re reading this: I love you, but you know it’s true and thanks for taking pictures of my kids with your sweet phone.)
It seems as though oldest children get the short end of the stick in a lot of ways, and it hit me today that I have continued the vicious cycle.
As I drove my youngest child to preschool, she asked if we could get a Happy Meal for lunch after school. “Of course, sweetie!” I cooed back to her in the back seat. “I would love to buy you a Happy Meal!”
And I meant it. I really would love to buy her a Happy Meal because she’s my baby and she’s growing up so fast. I can finally see how fast this precious time with my little people goes and I would love nothing more than to cherish the moments when I can make my kid genuinely happy with a few apple slices and a cheap toy.