The Ruling Crass

Poor Kate.

Let's just say it's a good thing she's not Jewish. She will never be able to say "my son, the doctor," won't even waste time fantasizing about it. On the up side, she will never have to worry about whether he will get into a decent school, or panic when it is Sunday and he's running a fever and the doctor's offices are closed. Being the mother of a future king has its perks.

The royal baby watch went on for what seemed like an eternity -- kudos to Kate and her little prince for holding out so long. I couldn't help but wonder, yesterday, what it felt like to be Kate inside that hospital, sucking on ice cubes and timing contractions and looking at her husband the future king and wanting to kill him for making her fat and sitting around doing nothing while her body felt like it was  being cracked open. I wondered whether she shouted obscenities -- to the extent a Brit can shout obscenities; everything they say sounds so articulate -- and demanded that he get up off his royal arse and tell all those idiots outside to shut up and go away.

Maybe she's a different breed from the rest of us. Maybe she doesn't mind sharing the day her life changed irrevocably with everyone else in the world. Maybe she figures she'll have plenty of down time in the coming weeks, time to count her baby's toes and bury her nose in the folds of her baby's neck and stare at her baby for hours wondering how on earth he came to be. From the beginning, Kate has seemed to take royalty in stride, has never had that "deer in headlights" look that her mother-in-law always seemed to have. And if Diana could manage, as well as she did, to give her babies some semblance of normalcy, my money's on Kate.

I'm thinking this kid will have a much easier time of it than his dad did, or any of his ancestors for that matter. Even if his parents continue to toe the line, there's always wild Uncle Harry and hot Aunt Pippa to keep him grounded. Thanksgiving at the palace is bound to be a hoot with Harry, the boy who would never be king, and P-Middy, Her Royal Hotness, the crass social climber. (Not as good a climber as her big sis, which I would think just makes her unlucky more than crass, but then again I've never understood the Brits.) Long live the bumbling and imperfect younger siblings. I know exactly how they feel. My older brother is a doctor.

But back to Kate. For a brief period, each time I had a baby, I wanted everyone else to go away. Mother Nature -- who knows a lot about being a mother -- wires us that way. The first born invites all sorts of attention, though, even for us regular folk. It takes a while for the novelty to wear off, but it always does. It's why younger siblings do crazy stuff; we just want to be noticed.

I look forward to the birth of number two, for Kate's sake. He -- or she -- will no doubt come into the world with a bit less fanfare than the future king, and Kate might, for the first time, be able to enjoy some of the private moments that will be taken from her this time around. But number two will no doubt make up for the lack of fanfare one day. Baby number two will never wear a crown, but that baby will give Will and Kate their premature wrinkles and gray hair, long before Uncle Harry and Aunt Pippa show any signs of deterioration. I can't even imagine what baby number three will do.

The older sibs may rule, but the younger sibs rock.