[My “baby” turns 24 next week. How did that happen? I wrote a version of this when he was twenty less than that.]

Lately my husband has been bringing to my attention the fact – or opinion, depending which side of the fence you’re on – that I’ve been spoiling our youngest son. He says that my baby boy doesn’t get the same treatment as the other two sons. But it’s not that Simon doesn’t catch trouble from his mom. It’s just that mom’s tolerance level with her littlest man is a tad higher when he does get into mischief, meaning maybe, sometimes, okay, yeah, he might get cookies even if he doesn’t finish his supper.

Well, who can blame me? The baby of the family deserves some consolation: after all, he is always going to be the last, the most ignored, the one whose voice can reach screaming proportions and can still be unheard and the one whose ideas are never as good enough as the older people’s. And frankly, Simon has an ally in his mother because – ahem – I am a baby of the family, too.

I suppose that I see Simon’s frustration and automatically sympathize. Yesterday, he got beaned in the head with a snowball by one of The Older Bros., mostly because he was an easy target. The brother then dutifully led him to the house for first aid (hugs from mom and removal of the snow creeping down his neck). Simon was wailing and obviously very mad and, to his credit, (older brother’s name withheld for legal reasons) did apologize several times. But it was only when Simon all-out punched him that his own frustration finally dissipated and he was suddenly remorseful as well. Although I chastised him for letting his temper get the better of him, I related so well. Sometimes the only way to make the bigger people know you can’t be messed with is to get physical with them. Forgiveness doesn’t come as easy as when it’s mutual.

Simon does have an advantage over me. While I was a few years behind my next sibling, he’s not even two years behind and not compromised in size at all. Actually we predict that our youngest will probably outgrow the other two. (Update: Challenge accepted and met.) Consequently, we often warn them that if they keep trying the sit-on-Simon’s-head-game, it’s probably going to come back and bite them (in more ways than one). But Simon’s voice is smaller, if not in actual decibel output, in dismissible quotient. It seems all too easy for his older brothers to carry on a normal conversation while Simon tries in vain to get their attention. And when I casually mention to them that their brother is saying something, they appear surprised, as if it was only the wind blowing outside.

I remember those days of engaging in whole conversations only to find out I was the only one listening to myself. Granted, maybe my juvenile pursuits weren’t exactly interesting to my older, more sophisticated siblings. So I gradually became accustomed to doing things on my own. Anyways, when you’re ignored, it’s easier to get extra attention from mom, a trick that Simon has learned well. Some may call it kissing up (or other more derogatory terms). We babies just call it playing your hand.

If you sympathize with our plight, chances are you’re a baby, too. Oldest and middle children say that we live up to our name, but we can just give them back some of their own medicine: ignore them. After all, if you tried to say something, they probably won’t hear you anyways.