We have a boy and girl. One of each.
My daughter looks like a Gottlieb. My son, if you can find a way to look past the shock of red hair, looks like me. One of each.
I can predict Jane’s actions. She is eleven, and I remember eleven well. She wants to be bad, she sticks her hand on her hip, rolls her eyes and tries with all her might to glare at us, but typically crumples into a pile of giggles. Jane wants to rebel, but she’s too busy being happy and skipping through the house, and through the world. Because I understand her so, I love her just a little more.
Alexander is a mystery to me. I don’t understand his need to stomp through every puddle. I can’t comprehend how it is fun to play catch for three hours in the same spot, with the same boys. Every Day. Just watching him search things out in his bedroom has me scratching my head. Because he surprises me so much, I love him just a little more.
When it’s time to tuck them in at night, Alexander isn’t wearing his glasses, and I look into brown eyes. Just like mine. He lays on his left side, grabs me around the neck with his right arm every night and smiles at me with his eyes. I know his mouth is smiling too, but we are nose to nose and I can’t possibly see it.
The nighttime smile with his eyes carries me through the day. Every day.