A second child is more than twice the work

A good friend just welcomed a second child to his family -- a cute baby girl who, I joked to him, will make a fine girlfriend for my 4-month-old boy about 16 years from now.

He muttered something about house arrest and a shotgun, so I dropped the subject.

I've had occasion to talk to him, and lots of other people, who have asked about what it's been like to double the number of children in a house. Every time I have the conversation, I refer to a talk I had two months ago with parenting guru and author Tim Bete.

The toughest addition, Bete said, is going from the first to the second. Not even the first child -- nor the 14th, in all likelihood -- will be as tough as the second.

Why? Simple.

When you have your first child, the responsibility can feel overwhelming, but you soon fall into a schedule and set of habits that create a feeling of control. That incredible sense of duty becomes manageable as you learn little tricks and techniques that make life more efficient and, by extension, livable.

And then the second one comes along and it feels as if someone has cut right through the house of cards you'd assembled since the first child's birth.

Bete's theory is that each child after the second gets easier because, in addition to the parents' added experience, you have other children around the house who help look after the younger kids.

The trick is knowing how involved you want the older siblings to be in keeping an eye on the younger ones. It's not quite allowing the inmates to run the asylum, but it's close.

Case in point: Recently I was left by my all-too-trusting wife to look after the boys for an entire day.

I knew to feed the smaller one every four hours or so, depending on his mood and how that nasty formula appealed to his taste buds that day.

I knew to feed the larger one around 11 a.m., and then put him down for a midday nap.

I knew to change the little one's diaper whenever it got wet and to keep hounding the big one to use the toilet when it came time to "go."

And I must admit that it all went well for most of the day -- perfect, in fact, until 2:30 p.m., when the baby started crying. It was time to change another diaper. But, hey, this is old-hat, right? So I collect Alex, take him into his bedroom and place him on the changing table and go to work as his older brother enters the room.

"Dad, what are you doing?"

"Changing your brother's diaper."

"Can I help?"

"I don't see why not."

And with that I lifted the little boy up atop the table and handed him a wipe.

"I'll get the new diaper, Eric. You take care of cleanup."

Eric began sanitizing Alex as I headed to the closet for a new pack of diapers.

The peace was interrupted by a piercing scream.

The baby apparently wasn't done watering the flowers, so to speak.

And now I have a wet changing table, a giddy baby and a wet, traumatized 3-year-old who immediately runs out of the room crying. He hasn't talked about what happened since.

I fear I may have lost out on what Bete promised would be a "helper" for our other children in years to come.

After all, why would any little boy pitch in when that is the reward?

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