I remember the last time you were twelve weeks, little Bun.
You could not hold your head up.
|It’s odd–over the course of a few days, she went from lying there, a pathetically snurfling inert lump, to holding her head up for minutes on end, checking out the world. We have kicked Tummy Time’s ASS.|
You could not fend off ravening lemurs.
|Those pesky lemurs.|
You could not look contemplative while wearing a girly outfit.
|She’s so good with power tools she can afford to wear bows.|
When last you were twelve weeks, I already loved you, though I was afraid to love you, for fear you’d vanish.
Then, I had no real evidence of your existence. Now I can hold you in my arms, so warm and strong.
Then, you were an enigma. Now you are my own dear daughter.
Then, I could not drink. Now I can have a margarita.