Marvel.

The baby that Lillie calls, "Matata".

She is tucked into that space just below my collar bone. She's breathing faintly against the freckles that spill across my chest. I marvel over her, and pray that the softness of her cheeks, the way her skin is still thin and loose and warm will last a bit longer.

Just give me a few more weeks of "newborn".

I laid on a blanket in the backyard late this afternoon. We were buying time until Daddy got home. Tild was sleeping in the house, Grace and Rube were involved in giggles and fighting and imaginative play at the kitchen table, the back door wide open and a breeze drafting in and out. Lillie sauntered over in her tanky two year old style. She plopped down. We laid on our backs and stared up at a bird's nest. The mama bird took flight and landed on our rooftop. Lillie sucked in a gasp and pointed, "burpee!"

The trees moved with the wind and the mountains and sky sighed. So did I. I am so, so lucky.