Growing up as the oldest of three I always assumed that being the firstborn was the most enviable position of all. You did everything first, received everything new, and there wasn't much that could shake you from that arrogance that you were the first and the best after all.
But now that I have three little ones of my own, and as I watch them grow and develop and interact with each other, I can't help but think that really the one who has it best is the youngest.
Our youngest is almost two years old, and has both a big brother and a big sister to emulate. Despite his rapidly growing size, and the even faster approach of his second birthday which will officially mark the end of his babyhood, he is our baby and will probably remain so until another one arrives to displace him (my husband is shaking his head as he reads this over my shoulder, as much as I am nodding mine). Or he could possibly always be the youngest.
So he is drowned with love and attention. Our older children were, too, but our youngest just has it from more people and for longer. Once our older children passed their second birthdays they had another - younger - sibling to contend with.