Can you believe this girl is 3?
She can't either.
I feel like Rachelle's childhood has raced before my eyes. She is the unfortunate middle child, the one who's life has been sandwiched between a lot of other events. Her first year of life is a blur in my mind, mixed up with my struggle with PPD and my mothering trials I was experiencing at the time. Her second year of life was marred by Mommy's pregnancy, sickness, and limited mobility. Her third year of life introduced her into the world of "middle child syndrome."
And yet, one thing has remained steady. She's always been the sunshine of my life. She was the light I clung to during those dark days of depression. She was the warmth I held close and didn't want to let go. She's still my squishy, snuggly, smell-good girl. She indulges in my frequent requests to squeeze her, hold her, or smell her always-delicious forehead. She cuts her eyes, talks out of the side of her mouth, makes funny noises, and has an adorable lisp. She still sucks her thumb and loves chocolate milk.
At times, when I feel guilty for thinking that perhaps she is overlooked, I like to take inventory of what I know about her. What makes her her. And I'm always surprised that I truly do know her. That I do pay attention to her. That we do have a special connection, and that she does feel loved. Our relationship is just so much quieter, our moments of connection filled with much less drama, that it's easy to doubt myself and my relationship with her.
But her third birthday was not quiet. It was not overlooked. And it was the magical moment I was hoping it would be.
(See how much use we've gotten out of that Flynn Rider costume? Michael is such a good sport . . .)
And now my quiet moments with Rachelle are filled with Maximus, Pascal, sparkly purple shoes, frying pans, and long yellow hair.
At least more so than they were before.
