A few things.

Grace,

I try not to love you for long periods of time because then it just hurts. If I really stare at you, tall as a tree, making your own lunch, I get all misty inside. How can I not?

When you make a comment on the way I fold clothes, how good I am at it, I say something like, "that's so nice of you". But what I really want to do is grab you by the arms and squeeze, holding you perfectly still in a vice grip and say that you're what I've been waiting for my whole life. You're what I've always wanted. I want always to be near you. I could live inside of your neck in that curve just above your collarbone. It's where I feel the most at peace.

Your brain works perfectly, like a machine, like a clock, changing and flowing and noticing and caring. You don't miss one tiny thing. When we do something stupid, or don't have patience for you, you adapt. With your back straight and eyes focused ahead, you forgive us, flip your hair, mention the weather and open the fridge.

You're a grown-up already. And it's both painful and beautiful.