"Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!"
I was oh so kindly reminded last night by my husband (who will have a new nickname in the next few days--Stubby just wasn't working for me!) that Boo is getting the middle child syndrome.
My blue eyed beautiful baby boy is sandwiched between an unusual, older brother and a demanding baby sister, and he's the quietest of all three children, so his milestones, although celebrated, are often more expected.
He is the second son, mimicking Bug's activities like a faithful shadow. He is a fantastic older brother to Punk, demanding her needs loudly and repeatedly, in case the crying baby wasn't enough of a impetus to get moving.
He is gorgeous and brilliant and loving. He is an amazing snuggler who loves his thumb (rightee, just so we are clear) and his bear and blanket. He runs like Charlie Chaplin on an acid trip, and when you look at him too long, he asks "What?" in such a way I know the teen years will just be a joy.
Boo is the reason I even have even an iota of faith in myself as a parent. After Bug's rather traumatic birth, breastfeeding problems, and PPD, having Boo was a Goddess send. He allowed me to really enjoy have a newborn, and infant, and being a mother, laying to rest some of the fears and disappointments that my own expectations with Bug generated. (Isn't it nice that we create these fairy tale experiences only to have them shatter under the weight of reality? Someone should have slapped me senseless when I was pregnant to prevent those delusions.)
Every morning, around 5am, I hear Boo meandering in to crawl into our bed, murmuring a sleepy good morning as he, his bear, and his blanket all curl up beside me, smelling of baby boy and sleep sweat. (And morning breath, but people in glass houses, you know.) If I'm lucky, (and if Punk is feeling magnanimous), I will be allowed to curl around my middle child for a few minutes, enjoying the solid weight of him, remembering the strangely liquid, jerky feel of his oh so tiny frame right after he was born and comparing that to the sturdy boy I now hold.
Parenting Boo is an honor, although most certainly tiring, frustrating, and hair pulling at times. It is a gift I never expected and now could not imagine my life without.
My children all are mine for some unfathomable reason, but when I thank the Divine for my gifts, I always think of them this way: Bug is my heart's prayer, Punk is my life's joy, and Boo is my soul's salvation.
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