Dear Daughter, I’ve started and stopped this letter a half dozen times. Sleep deprivation is like a leaf blower blasting my words into chaotic circles, ruining any attempt at a neat pile of thoughts. But this afternoon I made a lovely cup of Columbian coffee and cradled you in the crook of my arm and the leaf blower calmed to a distant hum.  I started to read but mostly I couldn’t stop looking at you. You’re beautiful to me—your tiny lips and full cheeks. The fist closed around my finger. Dreams occasionally tug on your mouth and it’s like you’re smiling at me. And although I’m too tired to spell the word sleep, I cling to this moment because I know it will pass all too soon.  Just two weeks ago you were a thumping foot against my stomach and already you’re a snuggly body that smells of milk and this marvelous, indefinable quality that all the newly born seem to possess. Two years from now you’ll be a version of your older brother—spooning granola into your mouth and asking for another Clifford book. And ten years from now … twenty … I don’t know exactly how to picture it, […]

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