Ninety-nine percent of the time she’s happy. Really, really happy.
But sometimes she’s mad.
And other times, she’s…resigned.
This girl has my heart in her hands. I am putty. When she crawls across the room to come lay her head on my chest, even for a brief second or two, I melt a little. In the rarest of moments when she is content to just let me hold her, her cheek resting against the curve of my shoulder, her chubby arm curled tightly around my neck, I hold my breath for fear of losing this magic.
We are three weeks out from the big O-N-E. It still amazes me that I’ve had this little pixie for only a year, despite my very identity being unrecognizable from the time before her.
She has two and a half teeth. She walks with the help of her brother, or the couch, or her train that scoots across the floor. She eats anything you set in front of her, and anything that looks like food off the floor. She shares goldfish crackers and fruit cups with me. She calls me by name, sort of. She has a distinct vowel sound for calling her brother. Her hair is getting longer, and blow-drying it into a giant fuzzball after bath time is one of my favorite things to do. People say she’s me, almost thirty years ago. She is my doppelgänger (which is only fair, since Bug is Hubs’ six-and-three-fourths-year-old clone). She is my little lady love and she is the stuff of fairy tales.