the middle child
I didn’t know whether to trust those cliches, the one’s about the troublesome middle child. Surely they were folklore? Surely they can’t apply to every family?
I’m here to tell you that Poet got the memo about the official role of the middle child and right now, she is fulfilling it incredibly well. Some would say she is excelling. That little hand that fits so well into mine has been poking and prodding Percy every time I turn my back. A few days ago she back-chatted me and told me I would be the one sitting on the step if I didn’t listen to her!
Her high-pitched giggle has a tinge of mischief about it and her little tongue has been poking out at the most inappropriate of moments. She also knows exactly how (and when) to push Che’s buttons and whilst he is quite adept at ignoring her, even his patience is wearing thin. She is bubbling with energy and sass; she goes, goes, goes all day and come 7pm she is, quite literally, out like a light.
Gosh I love her but goodness she can be hard work. She really is the spark in our family; the jumping, climbing, dancing, bouncing, singing, leaping, yelling, pulling, tugging one. She fights and loves with all her might. Her knees are grazed and her brow is bruised and her pigtails are becoming more Raggedy Anne as the days go by.
And yet her affection is at an all time high. Countless times a day she will say: “I love you SO much, Mum. More than a double rainbow and a unicorn.”
The middle child about to turn 4. Equally rambunctious and adorable.