I am never going to stop missing her newborn smallness.
I don't know when or if that's going to happen.
Certainly not yet.
Yesterday morning at church, she was cranky and clung to Phill. But she looked beautiful. And like a 2-year-old.
Her birthday was simple and wonderful. Phill made his amazing chicken enchiladas.
The children were entertained by balloons in the backyard. The presents were plentiful, but not overwhelming. A shopping cart and babies (that seemed size-appropriate, were a baby to give birth to a baby) from us and a little Elmo mailbox from some friends of ours.
When presented with her cake, her approach was calculated and methodical.
Perhaps "thorough" is a more fitting word.
She didn't attack it like the boys attacked theirs. The cake attacked her.
A bath was necessary.Today on our way home from lunch with Phill, she fell asleep in the car. Her body was warm and totally relaxed, her cheek soft against my own. I held her a little longer than necessary, standing by her crib, thinking how soft her hair was, how pure she is, how complex and beautiful she is. She peeked at me out of sleepy eyes as I laid her down, and I took note of her diluted-brown eyes and long lashes, and brushed her hair out of her eyes as she fell back to sleep. That little ache somewhere near my sternum isn't gone yet, but each stage of her life--and each stage of my boys' lives--has its own particular beauty. I might survive, remembering that.