After hours of fresh air, I had drifted off to sleep on the sofa. You saw me there--my eyes closed, my cheek resting against the cool denim of the pillow--and climbed into my lap. You settled so gently (fell asleep so quickly) in my arms that I hardly knew you were there. You always seek a lap when you're tired.
Sometimes I look at you and remember my old baby doll Susie. I slept with her every night, too, and she always smelled a little like my breath and body. She stayed bald, though, and her stuffing fell out after her cotton wore thin.
I wonder if you'll be especially tender after so much loving. Your sisters seek you out when they're upset, and it's the sweetest thing in the world to look up and see one of them lying across your lap, your pudgy hand patting her head and back. You're always good for a squeeze, and more than once, you've changed the tide of my day with your drive-by kisses.
You love animals, balls, a good beat, books, water, steps (anything climbable). You scrape the skin off your noggin over and over. You have the best laugh and the heart of a great singer. You're mostly chill. You're still unweaned.
Happy eighteen months, Baby. I so love being your mama.