My oldest and my youngest.
They are separated in age by nearly eight years, though they are just as equally separated by two starkly different personalities:
He’s a ten-year-old boy–brainy and thoughtful and desirous of logic from everyone around him.
She’s a two-year-old girl–vocal and dramatic and craving of noise and spontaneity.
He loves books.
She loves princesses.
They are just about as mis-matched a pair as they could be.
And yet I watch them, my oldest and my youngest, and I see the seeds of a unlikely friendship that will, God willing, survive long after I’m gone.
She loudly and clumsily climbs up in the armchair next to him while he watches his big kid shows. He grumbles at the intrusion. And yet I see his lanky arm intuitively lift up, and then set down gently around her pudgy shoulders.
She darts off ahead of us down the sidewalk, squealing and dancing. He rolls his eyes. But he’s the first to take off after her, instintively grabbing her hand. She lets him.
I suspect that there will be some bumps in their path as they navigate the coming years. They’ll never be in the same life phase, at least not until they’re both adults, and there will likely be plenty of bouts of misunderstanding.
But I also suspect they will learn from each other.
She’ll keep him from taking the world too seriously.
He’ll keep her from jumping off too high a figurative (or literal) ledge.
It’s a good thing those two have going, my oldest and my youngest.
And I’ve got the best seat in the house.