To My Daughter

A funny thing to not have an opinion about a baby.

You.

I have no opinion of you.

You pull yourself up from the hallway tile, soft, cool fingers with paper-thin nails gripping the mail slot in the middle of the front door, knees bouncing to balance in a way others would find adorable or “to die for,” and I don’t know what to think of you. Are you smart for having figured out how to lift the brass flap to see outside, or would other babies have figured it out much earlier? Are you clever, or are you devious?

You’re already trying to find your way, assert your independence. I can only imagine the full life that awaits you, so I try not to.

Neighborhood children are fascinated by you, even if I’m not. They bring you to the mail slot by sticking in their fingers and waggling them at you, calling your name. They like to touch your hands when you raise them to theirs, and they blow on your fine hair. Your father has fine hair, too, and was surprised you had so much of your own when you were born. A week later he was leaving, another trip, and I waved your hand goodbye for you because you didn’t know goodbye, yet. These days, you wave on your own.

The cat can’t get enough of you. She hovers nearby when you play on the floor, her pregnant belly slow. Sometimes, you crawl to circle your arms around…