Her eyelashes are without comparison. They curl so beautifully just above those clear, blue ocean-eyes of hers. She bats them, unassuming. Ensnaring the unsuspecting—me.
Her lips are defined by a deep Cupid’s bow, held together by dimpled cheeks. They laugh or jabber, making elementary sense of language.
And, O, those yummy baby thighs. Rolls upon rolls, made fat by mother’s milk.
Miniature hands brush my face as she feverishly nurses. Will they become the hands of an artist, an architect, or a surgeon? Will she use her hands as I have done, to comfort bumped noggins and rock the restless?
Four-hundred years ago The Bard spoke rightly of my little girl, “Though she be but little, she is fierce.” Her passions are just as tempestuous as any summer storm. High highs, low lows. All in the span of an hour.
In her, I see bits of myself.
But not all of myself, mind you – a new human entirely. When my DNA collided with her daddy’s, a soul like the world has never seen before and never will see again was made. A wild child, with a will of her own.
As much as I want to corral her into submission – “Go to sleep, now!” – I cannot. And, truthfully, I would not. I could not crush that wild heart of hers. She is her own woman. At least, she will be.
She will hold my hand as she takes first steps.
And, then, I will let her go.