It’s Sunday afternoon. I spent the morning doing domestic work. Baking, cleaning, decluttering. Puttering. The children entertained themselves for the most part, a Sunday gift come from a busy six days prior. My children like these days of no agendas. They paint and color and play house. They ride bikes, shoot hoops, run around the neighborhood with friends. I get a glimpse out the kitchen window—as I’m doing the dishes again—of my son whizzing by on his new bike. Whoop-whooping as he speeds out of my view and around the corner.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and my bedroom is neat enough to appreciate. Clothes put away. Piles of paper minimized. The top of my bureau cleared, dusted. I’m on my bed, snuggled under a pink blanket. Tea beside me. One child is napping. One is still riding his bike. And one—my middle—is playing quietly and slurping her own tea in the other room. Occasionally I see, out of the corner of my eye, her foot as she swings it mindlessly from the side of the couch. This daughter of mine, so content to be alone. So easy to please. This daughter of mine who turned 7 exactly one week ago, almost to the minute. This daughter of mine. Middle child. So patient and reasonable so much of the time. This daughter of mine whose birthday follows her sister’s by four days and yet who was born into this world three years prior.
She’s 7 now. In first grade. Taking ballet lessons and piano lessons. Going to reading group at the library and able to swim the entire length of the pool freestyle in her swim class. And I find myself having just as much trouble accepting her new age as I did accepting her sister’s. She’s growing up and into herself. She loves to draw and to sing. To collect leaves and to paint. To dance and to sketch. To sculpt and to read. She is a loving older sister and a fierce younger sister. She is finding her place in this family. A place beyond the middle place, where she always will be.
It’s Sunday afternoon. I am surrounded by books I want to finish. Notebooks I want to fill. I want to bake a pie. Figure out a plan for dinner. But it’s quiet enough. I’ve been productive enough. And I’m grateful to have a moment to pause and give my thoughts over to that day, seven years ago, when I was folding laundry and suddenly doubled over. Literally brought to my knees by labor pains, four days overdue. The day my first daughter was almost born at the admit desk in the birthing center. The day our family expanded to four. The day my orange-haired baby emerged with almost no effort from me, as if she didn’t want to be too much of a bother. Nearly bald for almost her first three years, now her hair is shiny and thick. It falls beside her cheek and swoops just under her chin. Her hazel eyes are green then grey. Her high cheekbones—directly from her father—sprinkled with the last of the summer’s freckles. Her legs are long. Her front two teeth are missing. She loves assembling the perfect outfit, complete with accessories. And she is known to sidle up to me for a squeeze just when I need a hug most.
It’s Sunday afternoon. More than enough.
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Originally published in October 2012