Lately I’ve felt the immensity of the privilege of holding my two-year-old daughter in my arms.

I call her “baby”, but she’s not properly a baby any more.

What was once chubby and dense and swallowed by my arms now rests there jumpy and long, arms and legs spilling out and wrapping all the way around. Overflowing.

She’s all action and exuberance, but she still slows down, grinning, and lets me take her in my arms and rock her and say, “this is how I held you when you were a little baby” and then sing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.


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