A friend of mine who doesn't have kids, likes to routinely ask me, "So...which one is your favorite?" I always laugh at this question. Partly because I know the two of us live very different lives, partly because I know they have their favorite and partly because they cannot understand the gravity of that question. Different times of day we all have the best or even better versions of ourselves...Some people are morning people, others do their best work as night owls and some have just your run of the mill "Pissy Pant" days. I quantify this into my answer for this question, and much to their dismay, I always say, "All of them..."
But as time moves across my face, waistline and navigates my old lady hormones, I cannot help but feel conflicted. I always sort of shook my head in disbelief at those moms who "mourned" their children getting older. Why? Why wouldn't you want these precious offspring to become more independent, less poop-pant-filled and grown up? But as I get ready for the next birthday in my house, I find myself becoming one of those sad-sacks, who just upon looking at a picture of my youngest child in a highchair, for what seems a million years ago, I get almost misty. I'm not claiming a favorite child, but I am recognizing that our relationship is indeed special.
In two weeks my Atticus, the little fellow with such a powerful name, will be turning 5 years old. How is that possible? It seems like yesterday I was coming home with him from the hospital. I feel like he is the best version of the youngest child, because he doesn't take any crap from his siblings. He is a straight shooter, who only tells it like it is when he feels it is necessary. He has developed this sense of humor that will carry him through life in a way that I know will be positive. But no matter what the calendar says, my mind races back to him at nine months old.
I used to sort of begrudge doing evening feedings at times with my kids. I felt like I was missing out on all the action as I attempted to put to sleep a child with a bottle in a lightly dimmed room. I was always strict with a routine when my kids were this little, and my control freak ways lead me to believe that if I didn't put the child to bed, it wouldn't be done correctly. CHUMP. But, be that as it may, that routine probably saved more than my sanity when I became outnumbered by kids. And all these years later, little did I know at the time, it was a therapy for me that will be forever unmatched.
I remember sitting in a rocking chair with Atticus, probably more than I remember sitting with any of my other children. I would feed him a bottle and pretty much mentally cleanse whatever it was I was dealing with at the time, and there was plenty. I would look at him and wonder about life. I would look at him and wonder why he was dealt the hand that he had been. I would hold him just as he was drifting off and think, how will he ever know normal? He was my alarm clock in the morning (still is) and my night cap at night. He was so little, but he helped me in ways I will never be able to fully explain. I believe he was given to me for this specific reason, well before I knew how my life would have ever been. He is more than just my child, he is my gift.
I love all of my children exactly the same, they are all my favorite...but in different ways. Oscar is my creative, contemplative, quiet soul, who has something to say, but usually thinks about it before he says it. When he laughs at my jokes, I take it as the highest compliment. Abe is my outgoing character, who loves to love with his whole heart and be in the mix of everything, dispensing comic relief when necessary all the while understanding when to deliver a punchline. Nora is my old soul, with a creative mind, unconventional and a heart filled with love. Atticus is this tiny power house, with a loving heart, quick with a compliment and the most unique youngest child. He might not have been my first child, but he will always be my essential example of why silver linings are more than a way of looking at life, as they were given to me in the quiet, of a dim lit room...
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