Mornings.

The sunlight beams sideways through the drawn shades, pulling me from dreamland on this cool fall morning.  Rolling over to my side, I pull the blanket up to my chin and just listen.  She's awake.  Her incoherent chatter lets me know that she had a good nights rest, and is ready to start the day.  Her chatter never turns to a cry, but more of a rebel yell.  When she finally can say it, it will sound like the toot of an airhorn, "MAAAAAA!"

My sore feet hit the carpet, and search for the smelly old slippers I used the night before.  Wrapping and tying my robe closed, I shuffle down the hall to the room that once was her older brothers.  I push the door open with the chilled tips of my fingers to see her standing at attention like a little soldier, waiting for me to lift her out of her crib.  Once we make eye contact, she bounces and dances, and beams.  She is hardly able to contain the excitement of waking.

I lift her, kiss her on the cheek, and place her where she rests most of the time I carry her - on my right hip.  Her left arm drapes over my shoulder and plays with the hair at the back of my neck, as we cruise the stairs down to the lower level, passing each mirror slowly so she can point and smile at herself.  If it's a particularly good morning, she will even stick her tongue out.

Setting her in front of the toy box, I can scurry to the kitchen to prepare her food, while still keeping a watchful eye.  This one can't be tempted; it only takes her a few seconds to get into the toilet, or under a table, or up 4 stairs.  As long as I hear every toy being pulled, pushed or shuffled about, I know that she is content.

I, too, am content.  This is everything I dreamed it would be.