Photo by Shelly Norton
Yesterday, you turned into my one year old little girl. We celebrated with naps and squished bananas. I suppose if I was a better mother there would have been a party with themed cupcakes and favors. And so my dear, comes the stinging revelation, one that you will learn sooner rather than later...I am rarely a better mother. Don't fret too much. I promise to make up for my inadequacies with extra helpings of love and trips to Anthropologie.
You, my love, are the prettiest blossom in an English garden. So small and delicate with skin all pink and cream.There is nothing I don't adore about you. Just two little teeth and a smile that jumps into your eyes, a laugh you save for your daddy and your sister, that perfect little neck that still smells like the stars you came from. As you enter this new, nearly walking instant of your life, there are moments of sheer joy. When your sister walks into your room to say good morning, when you have the first bite of a bowl of Greek yogurt and brown sugar, when I present you with a mountain of blankets and pillows ripe for baby bounces and coos. There are also moments of fear. At night in the dark when your sister has fallen asleep before you, when your daddy leaves for work each morning, when a door is closed too loudly or a siren sounds too near. And then your ever smiling face crumples and I take the two steps from me to you and hold you in my arms.
Hush, little girl, everything is alright. Hush, now. Everything is alright.
And you believe me.
And I hope I am never wrong.