My Dear Aliyah...

You are eighteen days old and I am eighteen days into my new life as your mother. I spend large amounts of time everyday just smelling the top of your head and feeling your tiny body rise and fall as we watch the afternoon pass us by from our warm spot on the couch.

I’ve learned that sometimes when I kiss the palms of your small hands that you will curl your fingers around my lips. I’ve learned you love having your head rubbed when you nurse. I’ve learned to decipher so many of your noises… your hungry cry, your peaceful coo, your frustrated grunt.

For years now, I thought I knew what love looked like in your father’s eyes - but there is a new fire that reflects when he holds you close. He calls you “beautiful” and tells you every day that he has a big, whopping crush on you.

Every night we take you to bed before we are sleepy and lay you down between us. We border you on both sides like tall, fortress walls and within that space we marvel at the kingdom that is our little family. We can’t believe we exist, that you exist, that love this large and tangible exists in such a small curl of bodies on a little bed in a house in Kansas City.