Two days ago, my little girl had her first birthday. I know she’s still a baby. She can’t walk very well, she only says a few words–one of which is “R”–and she hasn’t really done anything important yet.
She doesn’t have a real moral compass, so she hasn’t had the opportunity to stand up for what’s right. She can’t tell Liz and I how much she loves us because she doesn’t really understand love that way yet. She isn’t even big enough to walk the chihuahua.
So how can I be so proud of someone who hasn’t done anything yet?
Well, sometimes she throws her head back and laughs, and I can see her tooth that’s just peeking through. When I wiggle my finger in her armpit, she reacts as if I’d just given her a kitten. When she sees our actual cat she tries to smack it, because she doesn’t totally “get” petting. She cries when I walk out of the room because she isn’t sure if I’ll be back. She snuggles into my neck when I’m holding her and she’s sleepy. Sometimes, she’ll stop playing and scowl at her toys. And sometimes, like now, she lays in her bed sleeping, and I look at her on the baby monitor, and I melt, just a little bit.
So how could I not be proud?