Like all young children, my two oldest daughters want to be special.
They love when I tell them about their births and their babyhoods and what they meant to us. They love to hear stories of funny little things they did that made us laugh.
Inevitably, certain jealousies arise. “But Quinn was your very first baby,” Ruby complains. “But Nora gets to be the baby forever,” whines Quinn.
Don’t get me wrong. Mostly I think these sorts of disappointments are good for them. I want my kids to realize they’re not the center of the universe, and I want that to happen well before they go to college.
The thing is, they are three girls born in rapid succession to one very human mother. I think they already know pretty well that the world doesn’t revolve around any one of them.
But they are so infinitely special to me. And sometimes it saddens me that even when they hear their birth stories, they don’t feel special.
One day, while we were talking about each of their births, I added in a hushed tone. “Quinn made us parents.” Quinn stared at me in wonder, realizing immediately the importance of such a role.
Before Ruby could even take a breath, I added: “Ruby made us a family.” A broad grin spread across Ruby’s babylike cheeks.
I bounced the baby on my lap. “And Nora completed our family.” She babbled obliviously. But someday I think she will be proud of her special role.
Three little girls. So similar, yet each so special, too.