ROGERS: Time with children diminishes as they grow

Fifteen years ago, my middle daughter and I were sitting at the breakfast table, eating cereal on a Saturday morning. "I'm never gonna get married," she said.

"Why not?" I asked, looking forward to her reason.

She looked up at the ceiling, as 6-year-olds tend to do, while searching for just the right words, and then she smiled.

"Because boys are gross," she said, shoving a spoonful of Lucky Charms in her mouth. "And stupid," she added through the cereal churn with pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers.

I laughed. "Don't talk with your mouth full," I said, because that's what moms do even as they load their kids with nutritionally bankrupt breakfasts.

My daughter is the calm, introspective middle child tucked between two radically different, loud and accident-prone siblings. The bookend children, as I've named them, were a constant source of general malaise, emergency room visits, territorial disputes over backseat real estate, and comical family conflict, while she was a constant source of quiet joy.

While her older brother and younger sister earned their stitches and scars, Christina watched their stupidity and shook her head. She's always seemed far older than her years, far more observant and calm. While the bookend children earned their restrictions, detentions and quality time with a rabble of institutional figureheads, she coasted through the difficulties of growing up with grace.

Even as a toddler she was a clever diplomat during sibling rivalries and rather cunning in her assertion of individuality. When her older brother picked on her unmercifully one afternoon, when he refused to let her play with any of the good toys, she waited patiently for him to move on to other things. Then, just as we were sitting down to dinner, there was a murderous howl from the bathroom.

"Mom!" he called out, anguished. "Sissy put my toys in the toilet!"

The quiet girl with ninja skills disappeared, making herself one with the living room décor. The kid was a master. As her brother whimpered in the wake of her justice, as he declared his dinosaurs ruined forever, she had the soft Mona Lisa smile of cunning mischief and basked in the warm satisfaction of victory.

As my children grew up, as the bookend children became more radical in their response to adult authority, they came to count on their middle sister to serve as both confidante and legal adviser. Over the years, Christina has served as their liaison, often coming to me to negotiate on her siblings' behalf.

"Mom" she often said, "You're not going to like this, but …," and then she would spew the story and offer testimony of her brother or sister's remorse, beg on their behalf for both compassion and leniency and report back to them the conditions of surrender.

I believe it was her work in our familial justice system that sponsored her awareness of the power of empathy and witnessing. She is a compassionate painter and textile artist today who manages to capture the human condition in her work. The hue of her palette is always tinted with her spiritual gifts, as she seeks what some call a "purpose-driven life."

She chooses jobs that put her in contact with others' struggles. Christina has worked for social programs helping society's vulnerable populations, working on the behalf of teen mothers and the elderly. It's important to her to know her work matters, that it fits within her commitment to alleviate human suffering and contribute to other's lives in real, meaningful ways.