We have had a long day: Doctor visit, napless until evening, tantrums, horrendous poops, etc. I finally settled her into bed- our sleeping routine hasn't changed since weaning, except for her glorious lack of waking- and she rolled over, nuzzling her chin against my nose. "I hold you now, mama," she sighs. Her face quiets into a serenity that makes me think of Yoda, Buddha, and stoned hippies. Then my mind grows serious and reverent, watching this perfect tiny beauty. I'm in a blissful awe, thinking she has a sort of elegant beauty under the baby-ness that is really amazing. She lifts a doll-like, graceful finger, digs out of her delicate nose a sticky booger, and happily pops it into her mouth.
I have decided that this age is far more wonderful than I'd thought when I wailed about being better suited to the constant physical need of the newborn than the utterfuckingchaos of toddlerhood. With her language now a flowing, easy thing she is incredibly entertaining and endearing and quirky and singular.