Luck of the Draw

My baby should be surly. She should realize that the world owes her something and act accordingly when it doesn't come through. She should raise a wicked eyebrow when she farts. She should chuck her frozen teething ring, pock-marked by two sharp eruptions, across the room because it just doesn't do anything to numb the pain, godddamit! By virtue of being my child, she should do all these things, and more. But I guess she didn't get the email.

She's too beautiful, too sweet, too mild-mannered and calm to be mine. She should've been born to a mother--no, a mommy--who is soft in all the right places: soft chest, soft arms, words of adoration welling up inside and brimming to the surface, softly. She is not the type of child who belongs to a woman who looks at soft, written out four times in one sentence, and thinks, "wow, that is a weird looking word." She is more than language could ever say. She should have a mother who knows that.

But she is mine. I am hers. And that's really an uneven exchange. I am the one who got lucky the day my husband laid that swaddled bundle in my morphine hold as her warmth stilled the shivers that wracked me. Every day she grows, blood running hotter through each squiggling extremity. Every day her friction melts me more.

But enough? I'm afraid not.


Blogger Mom101 said...

This is lovely. I often catch myself wondering many of the same things. And hey, it's still early. Soon enough she'll know precisely how to respond to farts.

5:59 PM  
Anonymous Dad said...

Farting is definitely something she'll have a lot of experience with in this house.

11:57 PM  
Blogger GIRL'S GONE CHILD said...

Ahhhhh, yes. Wink. Smile. Poot!

3:34 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I too have found myself thinking that there is no way a guy like me has a daughter like the one I stare at all the time....she amazes me every day.

- Jon
- Daddy Detective
- www.daddydetective.com

9:57 AM  

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