Dear Anthea,

You are 10 weeks old today. 

It is not the going back we long for, but the staying the same. Which is an impossible longing with childhood. Each day, I feel you getting heavier, as if you are my own heart.

I will hold you even as your tiny hands push away from my chest. And you will want me again in 16 minutes, to nurse. In 27 years, to call and talk to. This is the give and take. That I will someday cut your spaghetti, braid your hair, perhaps sit in the front row at your wedding. 

For now—I help you hold your head up when it becomes baby-tired, wash the spit-up from your neck every night, and take immense joy in kissing your cheeks and forehead (making you smile with that breathing-trout face).

For always—I love the whole of you.