Texas natives in an Alaskan winter.
My proverbial middle child. As you grip the rope tightly with your young hands, I can't help but think of how little time I have left to hold you as the child you are. Your new sister grows inside of me and the fear I have of labeling you as our middle child scares me. Your hair is full and your curls are disappearing before my eyes. Your are still my baby, your are still my second. With your adoring attitude, a fervor for this rope swing. Your wisps of flowing hair and tangled locks inspire so much art in me. You are our muse, you are our second. You will not be seen as just our middle child. I know that I have to let you swing to new heights, just know that we are here to tell your story too.