Two years ago today you came into the world.
The next morning I learned of you through the most memorable phone call of my life.
Twenty-four hours later I touched you for the first time, and held you in my arms, your little newborn body, long toes and round rosy lips making an impression on my soul so large and deep I was sure I couldn’t love you any more than I did right then.
I was wrong. So, so wrong.
Now, when I can grab you long enough as you run by from one adventure to another, I rock your long body in my arms. But your legs hang over, heels hitting my thighs. Your arm reaches around my shoulders, fingers tickling my neck. Your head, full of soft brown ringlets, rests in the crook of my arm. Your toothy smile just bearing with sentimental me.
I sing “Rock a Bye Baby” but now, rather than being soothed, you giggle and shake your head, denying “baby” status. Sometimes you even request another song altogether, at which time I know my moment of cradling has passed. You jump from my arms to dance as I sing out of tune, in awe of you the entire time.
Happy birthday, Maevey Gravy.