Fast

December 2007, two weeks old:


May 2009, seventeen months old:


Outside my window, leaf-covered branches cast mottled shadows on grass that has grown unexpectedly long in a short time. Cora is in her bed sleeping, curled around her piggy, tucked under layers of soft blankets.

I feel awash in gratitude. I could write a hundred lines about things that fill my heart.

I remember friends telling me how fast it goes, how quickly babies grow.

She used to weigh 5 pounds, 13 ounces. Newborn clothes were baggy on her tiny, curled legs. Her eyes were a deep, dark blue.

Today she sat at a table and spooned yogurt into her mouth, stopping periodically to blow kisses and say "yeah." She asked me to sing her a lullaby. (This is how it sounds: bubaby, bubaby, mama bubaby)

Her eyes light up when she leans in to kiss me. I see love in there. I never, ever, ever realized it would feel like this.

Her hair smells like sunshine. She crouches to examine grass and bugs. She loves to shout ICHIWAWAAAAA at the top of her lungs. When climbing stairs at the park this morning, she reached up and curled small, strong fingers around mine.

I didn't know her little hand would feel like that. I just didn't know.

Happy belated mother's day to all you mothers and mothers-to-be.