Jasper,
Last Saturday you turned seven months old. And in the days following that time, I’ve wracked my brains trying to think of what could best describe this phase of your simply marvelous existence.
And I’ve found it.
You, my pal, are the thirdest child ever to be born third.
Third. Just like Ender Wiggin. (Anybody?)
The scene: Nora’s playing dress up and instructing Susannah how to grab something from that high-up shelf (convenient, since she’s already hanging upside down in the vicinity of it). And you? You’re the guy sitting in a bouncy seat at the corner of the room, eagerly waiting to catch someone’s eye- and offering up a brief shrieky giggle each and every time you’re acknowledged.
The scene: Nora and Susannah are dividing up the space between their dinner plates, poking forks, napkins, and broccoli into their separate yet equal stations. And you? Your mouth stays constantly- and patiently- open, hoping that each time I swing back around from chopping food, righting sippy cups, and wiping faces I’ll manage to serve you a bite of pureed pears.
The scene: Nora buckles herself into her car seat while Susannah helps me adjust the straps on hers. And you? The first to be secured into the car and the last to be removed, you’re the tiny passenger facing backwards, getting zero views of the DVD player and trying to reach for your Taffy giraffe and- oh- it fell to the floor as soon as I backed out of the garage. Hey buddy, are you cool without it for the next two hours?
But here’s what makes me feel borderline a-ok with this and what will (occasionally) alleviate my middle-of-the-night angst: you’re so darned happy. I love dinner, you seem to say. Thanks for remembering to give it to me! And when your sisters “forget” the reminders to be gentle with you? They’re playing with me! In my nostrils and eye sockets! Being strapped in and worn to gymnastics and park trips and shoe stores? The world is so bouncy and I can smell you, Mom!
The best part? I don’t worry about you. Well, that’s a teenser lie, slugger. Obviously I worry a tad. (HAH.) But I don’t really worry in the way that I worried about your sisters. A cough is probably just a cough. A slight fever most likely means you’re popping a tooth. And that thing you shoved into your m0uth is most likely a Cheerio. (…Right?)
This frees me up to enjoy you. To see your gummy grins and hear your raspberrytacular gurgles. You’re probably going to be the chillest of the bunch and the most likely to roll with the punches (from Barbie dolls). Because with the absence of my 2am WebMD searches comes the nonexistence of my freaked-out face hovering over yours. You’re welcome.
Silver linings, pal.
Even though you shouldn’t be playing outside when the clouds look that ominous.
Eh, you’re fine.
Love,
Mom
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