I can remember when I knew I loved my little girl. I mean REALLY LOVED her.
Sure, I’ve always, on some level felt a love for her.
I loved her from the moment I knew she would be mine.
But that’s different than truly knowing and loving a person. It was more like loving the idea of a person.
I loved that she would be my daughter. I loved that I would be a mommy.
I loved her smile, and her fat face. It’s true, it’s a fat face. And I love it.
I loved her expressive eyes.
I loved her little broken heart.
All before we knew her, I loved these things.
And when we got her, I still loved those things, but there was more.
I loved the way she held my hand.
I loved the way she laughed.
I loved the way she had become real to us, a daughter.
I loved the way she enjoyed every new experience with abandoned joy, a clap, a squeal, and sometimes a little dance. Because when you are really, really excited, a little dance is always appropriate.
But there were still times when I wasn’t quite sure. Times when I felt like a babysitter, times when it just didn’t seem real yet. Times when I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.
All through those times, I was getting to know little M even better. And there was more to love.
I love her abandoned love of food.
I love the face she makes when she is thinking.
I love the pride she has in herself when she accomplishes something new, or says a new word.
I love her beautiful, expressive eyes, and her happy smile.
I love that she loves order in her little world, and the way she says “puttin’ away, puttin’away” the WHOLE time she cleans up.
I love that she loves her babies.
I love her healthy heart.
I love that she looks to me. For approval, for comfort, for love.
I love that she will interrupt her playing to come give me a hug.
I love that I am a mommy. Mackenzie’s mommy.
I remember when I was sure.
Sure that I loved that little person, my daughter, so much that I couldn’t imagine a life without her.