To the First Born,
I've always loved you best because you were the first miracle. You were the genesis of a marriage, the fulfillment of young love, the promise of our infinity. You were new, had unused grandparents, and have more clothes than a Ken doll. You were the "original" model for unsure parents trying to work out the bugs. You got the strained lamb, open pins and three hour naps.
You sustained us during the hamburger years. The first apartment furnished in early poverty, the TV set we paid on for 36 months. You instilled in us a sense of humor that security and maturity could never give. You were the beginning.
To the Middle Child,
I've always loved you the best because you drew a tough spot in the family and it made you stronger for it. You cried less, had more patience, wore faded clothes, and never in your life did anything "first." But it only made you more special. You were the one we relaxed with, who helped us realize a dog could kiss you and you wouldn't get sick.
And you helped us understand the world wouldn't collapse if you went to bed with dirty feet. You were the child of our busy, ambitious years. Without you, we never could have survived the location changes, the new house couldn't afford, and the tedium and routine that is marriage. You squared our shoulders and restored our vision. You were the continuance.
To the Baby,
I've always loved you the best because endings are generally sad and you are such a joy. You readily accepted then milk-stained bibs, the lower bunk, the cracked baseball bat. The baby book, barren except for a receipt for graham cracker crust that someone had jammed between the pages.
You are the one we held onto so tightly, for you are the link with the past that gives us reason for tomorrow. You darken our hair, quicken our steps, square our shoulders, and lighten our hearts. And even when your hairline takes on the shape of Lake Erie and your own children tower over you, you will still be "The Baby." You were the culmination.
