Fidge… My Different Kind of Girl
It was actually raining and snowing the day you were born. And after all my rants over the past many weeks about Mother Nature’s wrath, it really wasn’t so different four years ago.
I just didn’t care. I was too busy just anticipating the safe, healthy birth of a healthy third child.
Beyond any expectations, you were a girl. Born with big round eyes wide open. Already watching, knowing… feeling what was going on around you.
My baby girl. You were perfect. Fat. Beautiful. With a thatch of fine, fair hair. Upon seeing you, plopped wet and screaming upon my stomach, I wept. My baby girl. An immediate bond of solidarity amongst our boys.
Now you tell me- alot- that you “are a different kind of girl”. And I know to you that means, you don’t have to do things the way others do them… or, more specifically, the way you’re told. But to me that means, you are a wickedly beautiful, whip smart, funny, snuggly, sensitive, nurturing, generous, dancing, singing, girly-y, rough and tumble, tough as nails, purple-loving kind of girl unlike any other.
Don’t get me wrong. You present, daily, a range of new and different challenges. Daddy jokes that you’re smarter than Mummy… not quite yet, but getting there fast! Despite our rantings and screamings, our little daily conflicts, you have me completely wrapped around that perfect little finger. I am yours.
So very special to me, it’s hard to find words. But what I can manage is, that, as with your brothers, I never imagined I could love so completely. With your arrival, I grew a new heart… and you filled it up to overflowing.
Fidge, my life is so much bigger with you in it.
