Me: Who's my baby? Who's my little baby?
Coco-pop: Not a baby! A little girl!
Me: (heart breaking into five pieces)
I love love having her home with me. I stare at her. I really do. When she is sitting on my lap, I look at her little profile and I get caught, in my mess and halfway through my list of Things To Do and do nothing but gaze at her little upturned nose and the way that her lashes rest on her rounded pink cheek and the auburn curls that lightly frame her face and I turn her chin gently so that she faces me. I ask her if she wants me to eat her little face up. She declines. I eat her face up anyway. She squeals and giggles and then says, do it again, Ima. And the whole time I am filled with wonder, filled with awe, filled with a need to touch her, to rub my cheek against her cheek, to play with her rounded fingers, her nails with the chipped red nail polish and half-moons of dirt from playing in the sandbox.
The knowledge that my blood pumps through her veins, that she is bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, all that floods through me as she sits on my lap, demanding another story. I tell her another story, making it last, curling up with her for as long as she'll stay still.
It's hard to describe, in this impure world, this physical manifestation of mother's love. I hesitate to post this, not wanting to be misunderstood.
It's hard to put into words, to put into into black and white the color of my love for my baby.
Sorry, Coco-pop. I meant, of course, my love for my little girl.