Kelsey is my first-born child, the one to pave the way for the others, whether she likes it or not. For some weird reason, Blair began calling her "Klooker" back when she was just a itty, bitty baby and it just stuck! Actually, when I think about it, Kels was never itty, bitty. She was a big, honkin' baby. Nine pounds when she was born, and she just got bigger from there.

One Sunday when she was just a couple months old, we finally trusted the nursery staff long enough to care for our child for an hour while we went to service (it was excruciating). When we came back to get her, she was with two other little babies. They were all sitting in battery-powered swings going back and forth, but only one baby was putting a strain on the motor. Kelsey was in the middle, sitting in a swing that was making this groaning sound, moving a few inches forward and then falling back in place. Every time the swing moved, it also made Kelsey's jowls shake and her belly quiver. The two other children were gleefully flowing back and forth in wide arcs. Kelsey was also about twice the size of the other babies. It looked like Jabba the Hut with a couple of maidservants at his side. She was just staring forward at us with those eyes...those condemning eyes. It was as if she was screaming at us, "Where have you been and where is my food?!"

Kelsey was my learning child. She had to suffer through the bad haircuts, preschool dance lessons, and even matching mother-daughter outfits.

Today, she and her skinny little bee-hind (gone are the Jabba days) left to take her SATs. She was nervous even though she insisted she wasn't. I've learned to read her emotions. And when she's nervous, she likes to talk--a lot. When she's really nervous, she becomes quiet. She was quiet this morning.

I wanted to tell her she could stay home and forget about it, or maybe go with her and stand at the ready, with freshly sharpened pencils and protein bars. But, I couldn't do a thing except kiss her as she walked out the door with her daddy, and cover her in my prayers.

When she was little, a glass of strawberry-flavored milk could completely change her attitude. If she was worried or upset, I would get out the strawberry syrup, mix up a glass of "pinka milk" (that's what she called it). She and I would dance around the kitchen while I stirred up the milk, the spoon keeping the tempo against the glass. It worked like a charm.

I think I'll go to the store on my way to pick her up and grab some strawberry syrup.