November 22, 2011
Giving Thanks for the Middle Child
Child, you have no internal thermometer. You'd be content running throughout our house all winter long wearing just a tank top and tutu -- or less -- and I doubt that you'd ever feel cold.
Your imagination cannot be rivaled. You play for hours with Play-doh, shaping and cutting and sculpting. You immerse yourself in the world of Strawberry Shortcake figurines, creating elaborate scenes and adventures. You empty a bucket of Legos, building houses and trees and puppies and people.
These characters have discussions with one another as you swoop them through the sky and across the table. You take it in stride when the pieces crumble, adding dialogue in your remarkable voice like, "Hold on, puppy friend, my legs just fell off."
Whenever we play at your toy kitchen, you already show culinary flair. Just the other day you were my waitress. I ordered pizza. Moments later you appeared carrying a plastic tomato, a piece of cheese, and a slice of bread on a tray. I was impressed.
Each time I order tea from your kitchen, you warn me that it's hot so I don't get burned. The tea that you serve always is too hot. Despite your impressive imagination, you cannot seem to imagine tea at any other temperature than scalding. Not even when I blow on it. Not even when I add imaginary ice cubes. In essence, you serve your customers molten lava in dainty tea cups. I do not know why.
Brooke, my sweetheart, I will love you always and forever. This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for you.
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