You know how conventional wisdom suggests the second child in a family gets less – les time, less attention, less (dare I say it) love from parents? Well, now that we have a little perspective I can confirm that the second child definitely does get less focused attention. I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. Sure, Daisy has had to work harder to get our undivided attention, but a byproduct is an admirable strain of self-confidence and fearlessness. Daisy jumps from daunting heights at the playground with a determined glint in her eye. She runs with her head down and jutted forward, fists tightly clenched behind her like a teeny little self-guided missile. Daisy laughs from the gut. She spits like a sailor. She eats broccoli (little trees) and salsa (Fy-Cee!) She has a farmer’s tan. She will disappear to another room when you’re in the middle of a game and you’ll find her ten minutes later, quietly “weeding a book.” Or else standing atop the dining room table. She eats messy food exclusively with her hands. She will drink milk from a “big girl cup” just like a lady for a week, and then hurl it across the room one night just for kicks. If you put something on a tabletop to get it out of her reach she will simply change course, and skulk off determinedly, “I get a sepstool. I get a sepstool.” She is not afraid to be the smallest kid in the bouncy house. Daisy goes her own way and makes up her own mind (much to Townes’ chagrin). Townes glided through the Terrible Twos, our easy boy. Daisy has thrown a Grand Mal tantrum with standard kicking, screaming and scooting with arched back across the floor at the Grove concierge stand. She has looked at me with what can best be described as murderous rage. She is the opposite of easy. She stomps. She scowls. “Don’t do dat, mommy!” She grins. She will show you her bum. She has fallen into the potty and (after getting over the initial shock) cackled like a maniac while I pulled her out and toweled her off. She can appreciate the absurd in a situation. She dresses herself (pushing my hands away and muttering, “I can do it!”) She can rap: “Don’t push me cuz I’m close to the edge. I’m trying not to lose my head. Uhuh uh huh.” My apologies to Grandmaster Flash and the African-American community-she means no harm. Daisy’s hair is unmanageable. The doctor says she is a little bit young for the smattering of freckles on her cheeks, our vigilant SPF application no match for her melanin production. She gets sweaty. She washes her “pits” in the tubby. She holds her breath underwater with open eyes. Daisy scrapes her knees and her chin. She shrugs off assistance of any kind with a dogged “I can do it.” She pees standing up. She giggles in her sleep. She smiles when she wakes up. She forgives Townes his every transgression against her with a hug and a kiss. She sleeps with BunnyWabbit, FiFi and Barry (the bear). She wears Tim’s shoes around the house. She says, “awwww. It’s cute,” when something is.
Daisy is not aware that as a girl, the world we currently live in puts constraints on acceptable behavior and potential, that there are rules she must follow to get ahead and to avoid being hurt. She doesn’t know that there are forces in her future that will attempt to clip her wings and put her in her place. When I stop to ask myself at what point fearlessness turns to recklessness or when the appropriate time is to start teaching her about limits, I check myself. She will be free.
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