My Family: Morgan

“Number 11, number 11!” My niece Morgan chimed from the back seat. As we traveled around Omaha, we were being serenaded by her favorite c.d. – from the grocery store to the gas station, from the mall to my mom’s house. “Number 11, number 11,” she repeated. I reached forward, located the desired track, and braced myself… for the 5th time. The intro began with peppy notes and a childlike melody, and Morgan joined in with hearty enthusiasm… “Happy Birthday, Princess.”

The song was actually quite fitting as Morgan’s birthday is fast approaching, and she - like many other girls her age - loves anything princess, anything pink, anything girly. She bounced up and down as much as her seat belt would allow while bellowing out as many lyrics as she could keep up with.

Though somewhat annoyed with the perky little song, I couldn’t help but look back at her and smile. I remember the age where being a princess seemed possible, where being perfect was only a storybook away. A large grin stretched proudly across her face, clearly displaying the gap where her two front teeth had previously been. She was still bouncing. Snickers of laughter sprung up in my sister Angie and I as we glanced at one another in the front seat. Our niece was a princess and proud to proclaim it. And at a random moment, driving around in the car, belting out Cinderella songs, I felt proud too… proud to be her aunt.

Mirroring her mother’s frame, Morgan is tall and skinny. Whispers of freckles spot her face, but only if you look close enough. Blonde hair – short and trendy – lays lightly upon her head, usually accompanied by a headband or small, single ponytail. She is a vibrant girl. Though only 6 (or shall I say 7), she can command the attention of a group like no other child I’ve seen. We often refer to her as “The Teacher.” At large gatherings it is not unheard of for her to stand up and loudly announce, “Okay, everybody! Raise your hand if you want to play a game.” At my parent’s neighborhood Fourth of July party last year, she stood in front of the rows of lawn chairs and firmly stated, “I want everybody to look to the sky.” If you didn’t look, she noticed. If you didn’t obey, she chided. And if the problem persisted, you were sent to the dreaded Pokey Principal’s Office. Don’t ask me to describe this horrific place to you… I wouldn’t know; I’ve rarely been there.

Miss Morgan was my first niece, my first experience in being an aunt. I remember making the long trek to Phoenix in March of 2000, just days after she was born. Holding her in my arms formed an attachment filled with unexpected intensity. My plan had been to meet my sister’s child, take some pictures, and then head home. I never anticipated the emotions that met me there. Tears flowed down my cheeks the day I left to return home. How could such a small package make such a significant impact? How could a baby, unable to speak, have the power to leave me unable as well? My world was now different. I had a new role to play... I’m the aunt of a princess.

Happy Birthday, Princess!