Back in Dublin, we took you to see the doctor.
“Annabel has a serious double-ear infection,” she said.
“She hasn’t been bothered by her ears.”
“Well. She’s just really tough then.”
Doc, you have no idea.
It’s not that you’re not sweet, AB. You are. On your brother’s birthday, we worried you’d feel left out when he got gifts and you didn’t.
We needn’t had worried.
You picked out the Captain America / Motorbike lego for him because he lost his other one in Dun Laogharie. “Captain America,” you said. “Avengers,” you reminded him. You wanted so badly for him to love his gifts.
You’re always the one looking after Deefer. Grabbing chunks of english muffin, waffle, sausage, and asking if you can give it to him. You throw it on the ground and watch him eat.
You’re always looking for your next opportunity to give him a rub. You’re so tender with him. Sometimes more than he deserves.
Over the eons, suns have formed and exploded, been left cold and lifeless. Civilizations have risen and fallen. And along the way, our species biologically wired themselves for two things: fight or flight.
You, my dear girl, are always wired for fight.
I ask you to go brush your teeth. Or put your cereal bowl on the counter.
You look me right in the eye.
“No,” you say. Not malicious. Just definitive:
No, I will not do that.
Who taught you this?
I’ve never been so frustrated.
I’ve never been so impressed.
By and large, children are soft. And parents, who witness hundreds of cruelties and grievances before their second coffee, worry about their soft children.
They wonder:
“Does she have the iron for what this world has in store?”
You, AB? I worry for the world.
I wonder if the world is ready for what you have in store for it.
Happy 3rd birthday, my sweet girl.
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