Slow, sleepy, Sunday mornings are the best with you. Your little toasty toes pitter across the floor while you linger closely at my heels babbling in a language only you could ever understand. With my coffee in hand we begin our day. Mundane tasks of laundry and dishes turns into your adventure of, "How much of a mess can I make?" You always seem to be right under my feet and I'm tripping. I'm tripping and falling. Falling -in love- with you. Dearest Daughter, I see myself in you. Today you picked up a fallen leaf in your tiny fist and stared at it, in awe that so many beautiful colors could exist on one thing. I giggle and think about all the things you do not yet know. Like the fact that our dog, Boe does not, in fact, like his "hair" done.
