you’re still glowin’, you’re still crowin’
She is still my little beauty.
Despite a heat rash (passed in a day), newborn acne (beginning to clear up), and the loudest farts I’ve heard in my life. I even think there’s beauty in the way she cries.
It still feels strange to talk to her: it’s like talking to a doll. But I’ve begun to slip into it sometimes. She has a sense of humor, you see. Smiles and laughs pass across her face, such beautiful ones too. Glimpses of the future, they seem to be. Today she was looking right into my face when a big smile erupted. She’d made the funniest explosion down below and I made up a rhyme for it. A Hungarian one, and as such: untranslatable. But I will swear for the rest of my life she smiled right at me because she thought it was funny.
She can spend lots of time looking, just looking - at the ceiling with sharply contrasting beams, at the one sun-yellow wall in her room, at the pattern book I place in her bassinet sometimes, at the black-and-white drawing of a cat’s head I’d put by her changing table.
And she makes funny noises when she’s not sleeping real deep, like right now.
