My Darling Ceilidh

Sometimes I am bewildered by the fact that I am Ceilidh's mother. When I gaze upon Devlin and Aisling, I do see glimpses of myself in them, both literally and figuratively. But I observe my middle child, I often wonder if she really is mine. For starters, I am not a "girly" girl, but Ceilidh is all female. She loves the colour pink. Reds and purples are a close second. She would prefer to wear dresses - long dresses - and don tights. When asked to brush her hair, she does so while looking at herself in the mirror. Her strokes are long and even as she combs out the tangles in her hair. Afterwards, she'll preen in front of the mirror.
When asked to sing a song, her voice is clear and melodious. Her colouring and printing meticulous. One day, I was asked to admire Devlin's art work. Ceilidh pointed out it was scribbling and messy, compared to hers.
She enjoys playing "teacher" to her group of students - Devlin and Aisling.
"Sit down and let's learn the numbers! I'm only going to pick someone who's quiet!" she admonishes as she holds a marker to the dry-erase board while instructing her siblings to sit on the floor.
At Devlin's hockey games, Aisling enthusiastically cheers on her brother. Ceilidh, meanwhile spends the game playing with her dolls or rolling out a tub of playdoh. She distracts our attention away from the action on the ice to display her latest play-doh creations. We tried to coax her into playing hockey next year. We even tried to tempt her with pink hockey skates and a pink hockey stick.  She refused. Aisling, on the other hand, begged to be "put into hockey when I'm older".
Should we have been surprised with Ceilidh's disinterest? Not really. This is the same girl who doesn't like soccer because it makes her sweaty when she runs up and down the field.
The other day after our spring snow storm, Devlin and Aisling, clad in their snowsuits, were frolicking in the snow while "helping" Daddy shovel the driveway. Ceilidh watched from the cozy confines of the home. When asked if she planned to join the fun, she demurred, stating it was too cold and wet.
Sometimes I wonder if being the middle child makes her exceptionally lazy. Or perhaps, Ceilidh was mistakenly placed with us when she is truly a member of a royal family. The world is to be at her service. She is the worst when it comes to picking up her toys. While her siblings make quick work of putting away their toys, Ceilidh will put on an Oscar worthy performance of picking up a small plaything and dropping it into the appropriate bucket. Rarely does she pick out her own clothes and gets dressed. Nine times out of ten, Ceilidh needs to have someone clothe her in the mornings. Aisling is well versed at selecting her outfits and coming down to breakfast all dressed, on her own. Mealtimes are especially frustrating. Aside from her pickiness and refusing to even consider a vegetable other than cucumber slices, Ceilidh expects to be spoon fed. She will open her mouth willingly  - like a baby bird waiting for her meal - so long as it's not her own hand holding the spoon or fork. The only times I have seen Ceilidh consume vast quantities of food is when her doting grandmother is visiting, since Halmuhnee has the patience to spoon feed a nearly five year old child. Although, if the food item is bacon, Ceilidh doesn't require any assistance. It's her favorite food group.
Ceilidh is already displaying that she is the nurturer. Unless she is the cause, she will attempt to soothe Aisling's crying over a boo-boo by hugging her and saying "it's okay" in a calm tone. When I was feeling under the weather after having spent two sleepless nights with an ailing Aisling, Ceilidh snuck into the bedroom, carefully tucked the blankets around me, and kissed me gently on the forehead.
What really stuns me is how gorgeous Ceilidh is. She has big eyes, creamy skin with just a hint of light freckles, and a brilliant smile that reveals dimples. When she's feeling particularly gleeful, Ceilidh will cuddle up and hug your arm with a death-like grip while impishly looking at you. I gaze upon her, and wonder how it is possible that I could be her mother. She looks nothing like me, and the only personality trait she has appeared to have inherited is her extreme stubborn streak. While all parents find their off-spring beautiful, I often find my breath taken away by Ceilidh. Surely, she couldn't be my progeny, I think in disbelief. The moment lasts until, we have another full-on meltdown - with foot stamping, shrieking at top volume, fists clenched, tears running down her cheeks.