Two nights ago I woke up to the sound of a newborn crying.

As I climbed out of the depths of REM, I asked myself why there was a little child crying in my bedroom. Of course it took less than a second to be reminded of the source of the tears, and the identity of the owner.

My daughter is now 4 days old, and I still look at her in wonder. And shock, albeit the positive kind.

This beautiful child is mine. This little willful Poo-Monster is part of me as I am a part of her.

Her smiles make my heartbeat quicken, and her wails make me hurt.

Each time I carry her, I wonder if I’m doing it right. I hope I don’t drop her. I pray she likes my singing, and adores my scent.

The way her big brown eyes search zigzag…

The way her tongue sticks out when she’s hungry…

The way her slim fingers and strong legs lash out when she’s hungry…

She’s mine.

And she’s here to rule the world.


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