Every week or so, a new article appears here or there about the significance of birth order, i.e., the characteristics of oldest (or only) kids, middle kids, and younger kids. Science being what it is, and pop psychology being what it is, it's probably too much to hope for insight into a cluster of kids greater than three; that is, whatever subtleties differentiate kids 2-9, for example.
One of the things that's obvious to all of us adults but not necessarily to children is that the youngest child can never catch up to those who came previously. (S)he is stuck permanently as the youngest in the family. My father was the youngest child of six (equally split boys and girls.) The only one of his 14 grandchildren he never met is my youngest daughter, who this weekend has been celebrating her ninth birthday.
My Dad died of a massive stroke a few hours before he was supposed to meet her. We'd flown across the country, and we were all looking forward to the occasion. I'm sure he was anticipating that moment the most of all. But he didn't get to experience it. I kissed him goodbye just a tender few hours before the reunion was to have taken place.
Instead of being held by her grandpa, Julia was present at his funeral. At two months+ of age, she had no way of knowing how closely they had missed meeting, passing ships in the night. He left as she arrived.
Now, she's a big little girl, probably the child with the sunniest personality of all of my kids. She amazes me in all sorts of ways. She's not only happy, lovely, smart, charming, kind, and funny; she's empathic, sensitive, powerful, and brave.
At her birthday party at a public swimming pool, she was the first girl to try the water slide; later, the first to try the rope swing. Her friends chanted, "Julia, Julia, Julia" as she grasped the rope and swung out over the pool.
Watching her do this, and more, my eyes filled with tears. I know my father would have been proud. She knows that I am, too.
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