As the birth of the next baby looms (Looms? That does not sound like a positive word. Well maybe if you think of a weaving loom and the masterpiece that is being created on it just waiting to be taken off…yeah, that sounds better.)
as I was saying…birth…looming. I have been thinking of my soon-to-be middle child, my chunky, baby elephant. I have heard that the middle child is the “invisible” child. I started to worry about this for almost 2 seconds and then she ran into a table knocking the lamp off, tripped on the cord, fell in the floor and started laughing.
This child become invisible? Not remotely possible. Ever.
To be invisible one must not be able to walk into a room and knock 14 things over in 2 seconds. Invisible children can not need a band aid, boo-boo kissed or possible stitches several times a day. Invisible children are plain not noticeable.
Not this child. She IS my daughter. She is my carbon copy and she makes me realize the constant state of turmoil I must have kept my parents in. I think they have just now gotten comfortable having glass vases and setting the table with fine china (when I am not going to be there, of course)
I watch her maneuver through the house and wonder how she ever makes it from room to room. She’s been walking for over a year, she should have this simple motor function down. Watching her though is like watching a pinball; constantly bouncing off everything in her path (and sometimes bouncing off things that are not in her path.) She begins to get close to breakable items and anyone who has ever observed her begins to cringe. It’s gonna happen. You can’t stop it. You just wonder how much glue or how many stitches are going to be required to fix the damage.
She is my chubby cherub. My angel with curls and deep, soulful eyes.
She will never be invisible, just as she will never imitate an agile mountain goat.
She is my daughter.