The Third child is Godzilla:
He destroys entire buildings, railroads and parking lots. The cry goes forth: “Mom, The baby, get the baby he’s wrecking my _________. ” The squirming drooling destroyer is removed to another room. The children sigh with relief, but he will be back- it is only a short reprieve.
The Third child is a garbage disposal:
He eats whatever is thrown to him. No separate meals specially prepared for a tender palate. No spoon feeding slurry in a high chair with a bib- he is lucky if he is wearing more than a diaper. This child digs in and grinds up what the rest of the family eats regardless of how exotic, how spicy, or how many potential allergens it has.
The Third child is in constant danger:
His mouth is a holding ground for legos, pennies, matchbox cars, blocks, and crayons. He gets sibling help climbing step stools and couches. He gets dragged through the house and wrestled to the floor with the life slowly squeezed out of him.
The Third child is a ragamuffin:
His hands and face are washed less rigorously and frequently than the others were, his hair is a wild mess and his nails are generally too long. Gone are the crib, bouncy seat, swing, and almost every contraption for the modern baby. Hand-me downs are all this child will ever own. His is a world of grubby fingers, stains, and mismatched outfits.
The Third child is an Angel:
He is the one I can still snuggle with on my terms, doesn’t tell me how mean I am and still s the looks like a cherub. He is the one who helps me realize that children have no expectations of their mother and has freed me to love him more perfectly than I could the others. He is the one who has helped me to open myself more fully to the wonder of being a mother.
My only regret- that it has taken me so long.
I love you.