The face of the third child

There are many things that could be written about a third child and what this baby does to a family. The beauty of what they add. The chaos of what they add. The fact that this third miracle takes the current arrangement of a 1:1 parent-child ratio and throws it right out the car window, probably along with his shoes. And the parents are too busy to notice or even to care. Barefoot he shall stay, which is a good thing, because it's one less thing to lug back inside the house. 

Once you have adjusted and accepted that you will forevermore be outnumbered by these short creatures, you soon realize that there is a reason for stereotypical birth order traits. Our third child is exactly what he is: the third child. It is simultaneously all about him and never about him. He is dragged around town whether it suits him or not. He is woken up from the deepest of sleeps because someone needs to go somewhere for the ninth time that very day. He is loved to the point of being strangled and played with to the point of being trampled. He rolls with it because he has no choice. He's chill. He's crazy. He's stealth and ninja-like. It's survival of the fittest, and he's doing just fine.

The third child is...

The third child is taken to the park during nap time. He is then photographed first, comforted second.

The third child plays near the cool playground but not actually on it because it's just slightly out of acceptable T-ball spectating range...

...so he makes do and plays with a garbage can.

The third child forages for food when he is hungry.

The third child does things his own way.

The third child is often gated like a zoo animal...

...and carried around like a koala.

The third child must use his foot to jockey for space, because the older brothers think nothing of hitching a ride on his stroller. (Toes - mini yet mighty - may be located just to the left of the Count's creepy facial hair.)

And in the end, the third child naps when he can, tucked in happily and peacefully. With his favorite shaving cream cap.

Oh, little Oliver. Mama loves you. Thank you for being so patient with us as we go about our crazy life that you have no choice but to be a part of.

Always stay so sweet. And only punch your brothers if they deserve it. We both know they probably do.