Your love of books, though more as objects than artworks, shows itself daily in your incessant demands for whatever "bap" you see nearby and your prediliction for advancing on any bookshelves in your sight to toss them all to the ground. You will sit happily for entire minutes at a time, moving carefully between pages, endlessly fascinated by the images of cats and puppies and alligators wearing shirts. You will point them out and name them, if you can; and if you can't, you will wait for us to name them. I tell your Dad that you get it from me, and that someday you'll be as much of a bookworm as I am. He pretends to shudder, but I think just about anything you do would be fabulous as far as he's concerned. Except, don't crash the car.

I love how you ask me for a kiss: by pressing your little head against my lips, sometimes over and over again.

I love how much you love my belly button and the mole on my arm. They are your talismans. You don't care for anyone else's belly button, I don't know why; but every morning when you wake up while Daddy's in the shower, you roll over me, one hand stuck in my belly button, saying over and over "baba! baba! mole!" When I give your evening milk bottle before bed, you will hold the bottle with one hand and the other hand will be playing with my belly button. Anytime you are within six inches of my stomach you will lift up my shirt and happily proclaim, "baba!" The belly button gets a lot of attention: nibbling, biting, kissing, slobbering. Poking and pinching. Someday you'll be embarassed by everything about me, but not yet.

I love your smile. It shows pure joy with a dash of mischief. You tilt your head down slightly and stare up at me from lowered eyes, all your teeth showing and your cheeks as round as peaches. I'll do just about anything to see that smile. Stick my tongue out and cross my eyes. Make funny faces in public. Blow on your belly and pretend to eat your leg. Kiss you on the neck just under the ear a thousand times in a row. Dance you around the living room until I'm ready to fall over. Tickle your face with my hair. Let you bite my stomach. The options are endless.

And those cheeks, baby girl: Those cheeks are the most perfect cheeks there ever were. Round and soft and firm, the exact right cheeks for endless kisses. I can't help myself. I sit there and stare into your beautiful eyes and kiss your perfect cheeks and stroke your neck right under your chin, the softest skin I've ever known. You are highly addicting; I can't get enough of you.

I love to feed you bits and bites of my own food. Your definite favourites are cheesies and ice cream and cookies. You get that from me, too. I hope my metabolism accompanies it and your love of sweets and snacks won't make you miserable later on. It certainly isn't adding any ounces to you yet; and you will come back for more again and again, pulling yourself up on my knee and crying and pointing until you get another little bite. Who could resist?

But most of all, baby girl, I love how much you love your Dad and me.

It seems most of our time together we spend with one or the other of us toting you around and, I must say, mostly because that's how you want it. You will beg to be picked up, then turn to the other parent and beg them to take you with outstretched arms and a pleading look, then once the other parent has you, turn around to the first parent again. Back and forth. Hug me! Love me! Kiss me! Carry me! And we can't resist, those big blue pleading eyes and arms begging for hugs. Who could? Who could resist you?

I love it. With new people you are now a very shy girl, not saying much and not much wanting to leave our sides. You want to be held and check them out from a fair distance. With people you know well you are affectionate, giving hugs and smiles with abandon. But you aren't like that with anyone but us; only with your parents do you beg for hugs and kisses and carrying and love. And I love it.

I wish I could put that into a bottle and bring it with me everywhere I go for the rest of my life, so in tough times I could pull it out, because I could never be unhappy when I see how much you love me right now. No one could be. If that could be jarred, baby girl, we would have world peace. We are teaching you to say "I love you" right now, and when you tried it first I realized how much you had been trying to say it before only I didn't recognize it--"aploo" you said. "Aploo!" So now I know, and it's mighty sweet. But nothing beats "Mama!" and your outstretched arms.

Aploo too, baby. Always and forever.