The other day I was organizing her dresser. Old clothes out, new clothes in. As I folded away everything that said 18 months, I realized that in a few days we would no longer count months. I lifted one more set of pajamas out and underneath them was a small plastic bag containing a lock of Willow’s baby hair. It was brown.
How I ache for her body to be tiny again, just for a moment. Just so I could hold her all of her against my chest.
People ask us, “Is she always this happy?” “Is she this good-natured all the time?”
The first 6 weeks of Willow’s life, beginning with her birth, were without question the darkest and most painful of mine. I look at her, this golden girl, this product of all that hurt and I am humbled again and again and again and again. As someone who has a tendency to gravitate toward the darkness, she is a ray of the brightest light that shines on me every day.
We love you, our sweet, funny, beautiful angel. Everything is better because of you. Happy, happy birthday!