To the first born go the . . . responsibilities, anxiety, other good stuff

One recent Saturday afternoon, I went to our local grocery store to pick up dinner ingredients.  Two of the kinder opted to stay home with the hubs and play Xbox, but my oldest was game for grocery shopping.

“Can I get a cookie?” he asked.

“Of course you can!”  Er, you’re the only offspring willing and happy to shop with mommy?  You can have as many cookies as your little heart desires – duh!

I know it’s a stereotype, but my first born (by eight minutes) is the more responsible, diligent, and accommodating child.  When I come home from the grocery store, he is the one who rushes to empty the trunk of grocery bags.  When I gift him and his brother with a Lego set, he is the one who puts ninety percent of it together and then beams when his brother chirps, “Come see what we put together mommy!”  When we are not fifteen minutes early in drop off line in the morning, he is the one who frets, “What if we’re tardy?” (You’ll think I’m crazy, but I can tell him apart from his twin in some of their baby and toddler photos based on his wrinkled brow. Seriously, my first born was born worried.)  So no big surprise that he is the one who volunteers to do the menschy thing and tear himself away from Minecraft to accompany his mother on an errand.



At the grocery store, I headed to produce and my son made his way to the bakery for his free cookie.  We met up in dairy, where my son handed me the yogurt his little brother likes.  I marveled at how much smoother (and aggravation free) grocery shopping is when you’re accompanied by one child instead of three.  All was quiet on the grocery shopping front . . . until the drive home.  Suddenly, my thoughtful, gentle first-born child turned into – I’m dating myself here – a total spaz.  He was shrieking, whooping, repeating silly phrases and being generally obnoxious.  But ever the first born, each outburst was prefaced with an apology.

“I’m sorry mommy but I’m feeling reeeeeally hyper!!!”

You’d think I would clue in to an obvious “if x, then y” relationship here.  But I did not. Exasperated, I demanded to know what my son’s problem was.  And he, being more with it than I, knew exactly what his problem was.

“I had a cookie.”

Ohhhhh.  (What’s up with that anyway?  Why do kids have such an immediate, colorful reaction to sugar?  That’s something I’ll have to google.)

The sugar rush subsided before we arrived home, and as soon as I put the car in park, my son leaped out and waited for me to pop the trunk so he could lug all the grocery bags into the kitchen.  Back to first born.

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