You know what I just realized? Each of our kids has a different walk.
Saoirse steps methodically. She plants each foot with purpose (i.e., so LOUD), walks in a straight line, goes from point A to point B as directly as possible. There’s no dilly-dallying with this kid, no bs-ing. She gets right to it. You already know that she’s the first-born child of the family, but if you didn’t, that walk wouldn’t hide any secrets.
Quinlan, the middle child, skips. I’m serious. She doesn’t walk. She skips, out of bed, through the house, runs out of school. She skips to see us in the morning, from the dinner table, to the bathroom, and then back out of the bathroom. I don’t know what magical dream plays on repeat in that child’s head, but I want to be a part of it.
And then there’s Cian, the baby, the one who crawled at eight months but didn’t get around to walking until eighteen. He runs now, of course, and it’s still so cute to see. But when he walks, he does it in a way that he drags his feet, trails his toes along the ground before picking them up, sort of meanders in a wobbly line that would never pass any DUI test, should a two-year-old ever get pulled over for drunken walking. He just…goes, slowly, toes dragging the whole way. The baby. The one who has everything done for him. The one who doesn’t have to rush, because there’s always going to be bigger kids jostling to get in front of him anyway.
It’s so funny. It’s so…them. And I’m curious to see how their walks–and personalities–will change as they grow. Right now, though? Right now, at least, we always know which kid is coming at us from another room. Each child is different. But all of them are loud.