She snuggles with me. Every night when I sing to her beside her crib (poor thing, I am a terrible singer), she curls her petite frame over my shoulder, just like any 2-year-old would do with her mom.
Her mom, that's me. The buck stops here. I am her mom, like I am Bright, Zion, and Brave's mom.
I study her when I'm holding her, in an attempt, I think, to make up for lost time. She has a small brown birthmark on her left calf. It kind of looks like she was splashed with mud. When she smiles, a crescent-shaped dimple appears beneath her cheek on her left side. Her feet are wide and long, with offset pinky toes and nails like discs. Her feet flap when she runs. She swaggers when she walks, which I contribute to her flexible joints. You could tie that girl in a knot. She has a raspy laugh. Her fingers are nimble and controlled. Her eyes are knowing. Her hemangioma (large, blood-filled tumor on her chest, shoulder, and armpit) was daunting at first, but it wasn't long before I was washing it and drying it like I would clean behind her ears. A small part of me will be sad when it is gone. The first act of trust between us was when I rubbed lotion on it that first night. I took off her dress and she looked at me like, "What do you think of me now?" I scooped her up and held her close, hoping that she could understand my answer.