To the girl with the beautiful teeth and the perpetually disheveled hair

You know how sometimes you write a note to yourself and then fold it up into a pretty square and then stuff it into your jeans pocket and then completely forget about it until about the time you hear the rinse cycle of the washer start? And then you open the lid of the washer after it quits spinning only to find your pretty square note has not only tripled in size but has also sprawled itself out like toilet paper on the morning lawn??? Well. That didn't happen here. THANK GOD. See, I found my pretty square note in an old pair of jeans. A pair of jeans that didn't fit. Then did. Then didn't again. And then did. And I was going to wash them and wear them now that they fit again. But I managed to have a moment of sheer wisdom just before that, and so I checked the pockets and found this note. It was something I'd written for Emma, my third child, when she was probably a month old. Maybe less. Maybe not, though, because these pants wouldn't have fit me when she was a month old. Anyway, the creases of the paper were very worn, the corners very frayed. It looked like something that might have been written 30 years ago, as opposed to just three. The idea that the washer might have destroyed something so personal and corny and post-partumish, well... it breaks my heart to think of it. And because I know this letter is so fragile now. Because I'm aware of its worth just a little bit more than I might have been otherwise, I'm going to post it here. Now. For the sake of all prosperity.

Emma. She lays in her crib with a smile across her face before the light of a new day begins. "Pay attention," I tell myself. "Pay attention to the curve of her cheeks when she lights up the moment I walk into the room. Pay attention to the illumination of her eyes when my voice greets her after a long night's sleep. Pay attention to the exchange of recognition, the agreement of love, the relief in knowing we've been given one more day with each other."

I lift her to my breast and feel the satisfaction that comes from sustaining another human being. I kiss the hand that finds mine and hangs on as if it were lost and gratefully found. I smell the oil in her downy hair, the milk on her parted lips. I listen to the rhythmic swallow and watch as she rolls her eyes, finally shutting them.... Asleep again. Goodnight, my sweet, sweet baby. Until we meet again.


Corny or not, I was really onto something when I wrote that whatever-you-call-it. I KNEW there was good reason to be paying attention. You see, now she just pulls the covers over her head when the light of a new day begins. And she barks, "Not yet!" Or, "I'm not wet!"

Anyway... no more embarrassing notes that could be ruined, Sweetie. Just embarassing blog posts from here on out, 'kay? Happy 3rd birthday, baby.