Written when Tillie was 6 months, then interrupted by a sleepless night and 11 more months of chaos before I finally came back to publish.  

Dear Matilda,

Oh, little one, you are so delicious, your round arms, your stuttering ah ah ah cry when you want to nurse, the way you fall effortlessly between laughter and tears and back again. You are launching yourself wholeheartedly into this world. Your first days here you basked contentedly in my arms, in the air, in the sweet summer breezes. 6 months later and you are tasting the world in new ways. Sitting in your high chair at dinner, you place yourself firmly in the midst of the family activity. You dive toward my finger, mouth open, take in bites of squash, avocado, banana, soup, grab the water glass and sip then look up grinning, water dripping down your chin.

Your dimples in unexpected corners of your face. Your round little chin, your dark hair. I carry you on my hip all day, spin from room to room trying to tame the chaos, and you look seriously up at me, wondering, gazing. You drink me in too. We made a whole chocolate cake together today, you planted firmly on my hip, Finn on the stool at the counter. I measured while Finn stirred, and you reached for everything, your delicate fingers feeling the butter, the flour.

Your mornings start with a brother or two climbing into bed saying "look, she's awake! Hi Tillie!" even though your eyes are still shut. They are greedy for that first delighted smile when you see them. You cry now when they leave for school in the morning, and reach for them when they come home, for their tantalizing hair, their cheeks, whatever you can grab.

Oliver plays a game he calls Telesmile, smiling at you from across the room until you smile back. Just one fuss from you and he rushes over, dropping his building or drawing to comfort you. Finn is your entertainment committee of one. All he has to do is walk into the room and you start to laugh in anticipation--ready for a ball to fly, a funny dance or a new amusement.

We have quiet mornings at home together when they are gone. If I turn on the radio you look everywhere to see who is here, so I play music instead. This week we listened to Mahler and you got very quiet and still when the horn played those beautiful opening notes from the balcony. We vacuum and play, read stories and wash the dishes. You nap and I frantically make dinner, chopping vegetables into big uneven pieces and throwing them into the pot as fast as I can, because twenty minutes later you are up again, calling me. I pick you up and you grab my hair, plant your other thumb firmly in your mouth and rest your head against my chest.

 Oh daughter, the things you can do now! You can sit, so perfectly upright, and reach out a hand to catch yourself when gravity pulls at you. You can grab a toy, or a book, or my socks and bring them so surely to your mouth. You can screech and sing and babble. You can flip from your belly to your back like it's nothing, like you never lay there in frustration, kicking your legs and flailing to turn over.

Some scientists say we'll gain immortality by abandoning the body and placing our consciousness into more stable elements. Our bodies are weak, they say, just packages of meat that are destined to fail us. It is true that our bodies bring us suffering, but I'm not ready to dismiss the flesh. How can I? I've brought three beings through my own body into the world and sang them awake in that euphoric love drunk flood of words that is no different than the low baaing of other mammal mothers as they lick and nuzzle their young. I've held your slippery and tender warmth against my skin and watched you unfold into breathing being, into wonder and worry, watched pink suffuse your skin and your eyes blink and seek out mine. Your body is a wonder. You are a wonder.