We were at the playground, with our daughter, who at nine, looks like one of those improbably proportioned tween dolls–all hair, eyes and legs. She was dressed like one of those dolls too; in a pink shirt, pink pants and pink sneakers with a pink helmet and pink elbow, wrist and knee pads. As she glided around the pavement on her pink Ripstick with the grace of an Olympic figure skater, she attracted notice.
The father of a two-year-old came over and asked us if we were happy with just one child. He told us he and his wife were in the process of deciding whether or not to have another baby. He had accompanied his golden-curled two-year-old to the playground, ferrying her equipment like a sherpa. She had a little pink scooter and not one but two balls, a soccer ball AND a basket ball. The father switched balls for the toddler depending upon her desire to kick or dribble.
As we were leaving the playground, we passed an oversized stroller with a walker hanging off the handles. Gazing around the playground I found what I was looking for. A kindergarten-sized child seated on the ground facing a woman, a therapist who was gesturing enthusiastically. The child barely moved. The mother watched intently from the nearest park bench.
At my daughters check-up this year, her pediatrician pronounced her “perfect”. He asked her if she knew that she was perfect and if her parents tell her that she is perfect. I remembered that when we thought about another child it seemed like tempting fate to try again after we’d already won the lottery with our one perfect child.
This is an original post to NYC Moms Blog.
Kathie, lives in Brooklyn, NY with her husband and daughter. She blogs at clownmommy.