Big Love

When I was pregnant with my second daughter I was so huge that when I turned to the side I looked like I was having a German shepherd. From the very beginning nothing about this kid has been small.

The moment her lungs hit air her voice was big. Her personality too large for that little baby body.

At twelve months she endlessly began to inquire, “What dat?” unleashing her big curiosity. At fourteen months she didn’t call her dad “DaDa,” instead she emulated me and branded him, “Honey.” From her highchair she could be heard sweetly, yet loudly, demanding that “honey” bring her “mo mok!” (more milk).

“Honey” would comply.

But not because baby always got her way, but because baby’s love was her biggest big of all.

Big kisses, big hugs. Big, “Love you!” She couldn’t snuggle enough, she couldn’t kiss you enough.

And when she was mad? She couldn’t throw a big enough fit.

This demanding little dynamo is now nine years old and her personality gets bigger by the day.

She makes her friends big presents, she plans big sleepovers, and she never leaves a room without everyone in the vicinity being notified by the resulting silence that she has, indeed, left the building.

Her moods are not mysterious. Not even Helen Keller would be in the dark if she knew this child.

My first daughter, although equally as wonderful, was nothing like this. And is nothing like this.

When she was three years old her father and I marveled at what amazing parents we were. She never had a tantrum, always complied, and was basically, an angel. I seriously wondered if I’d given birth to a saint.

She was that good.

“We should write a book on parenting,” we would tell ourselves every time we’d witness a toddler in full on terrible two’s form. Obviously we were parenting wonders harboring mystical wisdom.

Then.

We had our second child.

And threw all that thinking down the diaper bin.

As plentiful as the stars in the sky, so are the personalities of people. None of us are identical, all of us are unique fingerprints of humanity.

And anyone with more than one child will say “Amen, sista!” to that.

Nature versus nurture.

It’s a mystery.

Our two daughters were reared in virtually identical fashions. For whatever reason the first one was so compliant the cat could have raised her. The second one? Well, let’s just say the cat has been through a lot. (Sorry about that whisker incident, Dolly. At least they grew back?)

I love both my daughters to absolute pieces and celebrate the qualities that make them who they are. One is on her way to being an artist. I can see her living the creative life in a funky studio apartment someday and going to alternative concerts every weekend, maybe even designing the album covers for her favorite bands, sharing her gifts and impacting the world around with her talent and passions. Quietly.

The other? She is going to be a woman who is going to rock the world, an attorney who doesn’t back down, who fights for justice and stands up for the underdog. Or maybe she’ll be the activist who marches on Washington, speaks from her heart, and lobbies for change while pumping signs of protests (designed by her quieter sister).

We are all gifted in some way and blessed with talents that pepper the world with human qualities as unique as the sound of our voices. And as the mother of two of those very opposite voices, it is my job to simultaneously guide without stifling, nurture without demanding, and allow my daughters to become the women they are someday meant to be.

The world is counting on me to do just that.

And I plan to.

In a big way.

(That is if my second daughter gets out of her time out chair in time for college . . . .)

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I wrote this post for all the parents in the world who wake up every day and just do the best they can. Who sometimes fail but always try.

For the parents who even though they aren't perfect, provide their children with the best possible thing you can do to guarantee their success and happiness in the world:

Love.

(I love you, my little Peanut Butter. Love, Mommy Butter.)