In my family, it is a tradition as old as time that the youngest of the family are the ones most abused.

I don’t mean physical abuse. I mean, the youngest are the ones put to the most use, get the least privileges, and are given the worst chocolate bar in a variety pack. That’s just how it is.

When I think about my children passing infancy and toddlerhood to becoming self-functioning, intelligent beings, I can’t help but rub my hands together and grin evilly. No more will I have to do every menial chore around the household; I will have tiny maids, little waiters to do whatever I ask of them. Clean your room. Wash the dishes. Take out the trash. Rub my feet. Go play in traffic.

And not only that, but at large family gatherings, THEY will be the ones to suffer the uncomfortable misfortune of having to sit on the floor to eat while the grownups sit on the nice comfy couches. I had to endure this particular form of punishment for being “the baby” for thirteen years. It was the way the cards were dealt; it wasn’t until that time that there were new children born into the family to be tormented with small grievances and denials of luxury.

The only upside of being the youngest in my family is that at Christmas, you get to open all of your gifts from everyone first. What the children don’t know until they’ve graduated into the “grownup” group is that this is only done so the children can be shepherded into another room to be left with their toys while the adults exchange the really interesting gifts, like double-ended dildos and hand grenades. Oh, how youth miss out on all the fun.

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