Pass The Ketchup

Before we revealed the news about Mr. Baby, Too to our families, we were convinced that they would be as beside themselves as they were about Mr. Baby. We assumed there would be cheers, high fives and all manner of hoots, hollers and huzzahs — whatever it was, at the very least it would approximate the reaction we got when we announced the news about Mr. Baby.

Uncle Goober, otherwise known as the second child, was convinced the response would be muted. We told Goober he was mistaken, that grandparents are cuckoo bananas for all manner of grandchildren, that once they start being grandparents, they can't stop themselves, sort of like Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting: "Jist one more feckin' hit . . ."

And so we set out to tell them when we were all together, just past the twelve week mark. We were all out to dinner and after we got our drinks and appetizers, I dutifully stood up and said that we had some news, that at least one of us was pregnant again. And then one of the dads asked someone else at the table to pass the ketchup. And this pleased Goober greatly.

So yeah, it starts with the grandparents. From there it's an unrelenting trickle of slights large and small: Dad doesn't bother going to any of the doctor appointments, fewer in utero photographs, generally forgetting to tell people about the news. Not only is everything they say about second children is true but you immediately see exactly how it happens.

I will say this for Mr. Baby, Too — we didn't spread the word by saying something along the lines of, "Big news: So-and-so is going to be an older brother!"

And then when the second baby finally arrives it only gets worse: the birth itself is less the miracle of life than amazement at how much the second kid looks like the first one did — "It's the same shot, exactly!" you yell. "Oh, it's uncanny," they respond. You put the kid in the same outfit and take more of the same pictures. You pose the first with the second. The first is the main subject of those shots. Isn't it adorable the way he dotes on his little brother? It goes on and on.

There are subtle differences, too, that don't involve just taking the second one for granted. Just this morning I realized that we now start talking about "the kids" as opposed to just Mr. Kiddo. As in, "Maybe we'll take the kids to the park later?" It sounds weird, kind of like the first couple of times you say "my wife" — when you say "the kids," it's different — you're now a dude with "kids," for one. "The kids" just sounds like it's a big responsibility, you know?

Of course, the structural demands become clear quickly — we're attuned to not making the first one somehow uncomfortable or upset by this new addition. I don't think the second one is starting a shit list just yet, but at some point he'll probably start noticing this being some sort of tragic thing that has befallen him.

. . . . . . . . . .

When we mentioned the ketchup story to the grandparents just after Mr. Baby, Too was born they protested — they love all grandchildren the same, of course, and they were so happy to hear the news, and that they didn't remember anyone asking for ketchup but rather that everyone was very happy to get the news. But they did finally allow that maybe there's a slight difference between the first time and subsequent times.

Of course there is a difference between the first kid and subsequent kids. That's only normal: You're not like Guy Pearce in Memento (as opposed to infants, who sometimes do seem like Leonard Shelby, the character in the film who lacks a memory and who needs important stuff tattooed on his chest [which unfortunately you can't do to toddlers]).

I'm reminded of that old axiom about "parenting is about not letting on that the second child means less than the first." I'm going to turn that one on its head: good parenting is avoiding making the second child feel like an unloved afterthought. And so begins my next great quixotic project: "Second Best," in which the second child somehow receives even more specialized attention than the first. The details are fuzzy, and we're all adjusting to getting less sleep than usual, which may affect the outcomes, but I'll let everyone know how it turns out.