Different

I have three children.  And they are as different as night, day, and whatever the third option is.  They love each other, and are way too much fun as a group - I laugh as childhood roles manifest in these very tall people.

My oldest would have made a great Stoic.  Nothing fazes him.  Solemn from birth, and easy.  I thought all babies slept all night at four weeks.  Hated school, hated books and reading.  Would ride his bike for hours, or dig in the back yard until dark.   His career choice doesn't speak to his personality - postal service employee - and he reads everything now.  My most inscrutable child, and the one I share the least common ground with.  But my soul.

My daughter was a miracle baby.  Three miscarriages between she and her brother and no child has ever been worshipped more.  Looks just like her daddy but is my clone in disposition.  Her grandfather used to say she was me, cubed.  All things being equal, she might have been better off if it were reversed.  She feels everything, deeply, and frets.  She's always fretted.  From socks that didn't feel right to my lack of concern over hair-ribbon placement before school.  With two other children clamoring for attention.  Reads, thinks, writes.  And is my breath.

Then my last.  My heart.  My sweet child.  Who battles demons.  Addictions.  Brilliant.  Beautiful.  Driven.  And in recovery.  I pray, constantly, for my baby, my sweet boy, my angel on earth.  Loves Sinatra and Miles Davis, and has probably read every book of any worth.  Speaks Latin and Greek.  And can't be kind to himself.  He will mend, I know.  I have faith.  And my baptismal name was Monica.  Her heart broke for her son, too.

They can't even agree on what to call me, the woman who suffered so to give them life.  (A family joke; they were all C-section.) To my oldest I'm "Mother."  My daughter, almost 29, calls me "Mommy."  And to my baby boy I'm "Darlin'." 

I like it that way.