dear clara, dear daughter, we are crazy.

Dear Clara, 



Girly. Can you believe you’ve been here, in the open air, under the sky, safe in our home, in our arms, for seven months? It feels like such a short time for so much to have changed.

I carried you inside of me for longer than this. We spent a lot of days and nights in a very private world, you and I. Our blood ran together. Your heart was, quite literally, attached to mine. Every one of my breaths belonged to you, lovely girl. I grew and I grew and I grew, full with you and all that you would become.
And then, in a painful rush, you left me. Took your own powerful breath, opened your enormous eyes, and that was that. The quiet world of you and me disappeared, replaced by the pride of saying, “This is my daughter. Her name is Clara Noelle Horney.” And proud we are, Smoochie. You should see your daddy, my husband, the man we both wake up to kiss each morning. He carries you face forward at all times, on display, in a sincere and everlasting belief that you are indeed the best thing that anyone has ever seen or had the privilege to meet, and yes, you may compliment my daughter. Her name is Clara and yes, her eyes are quite beautiful. Thank you and I agree. 

To be honest, we’re really awful about all of it, dolly.
We are glad to tuck you in at night, to pull that soft white blanket around you, and then thirty minutes later we sort of miss having you around. Of course, you’ve recently begun a progressive tone shift when you’re tired, screeching louder and louder the more exhausted you get. It’s terrible, reprehensible really, and we hustle you into bed when it starts, because we can’t stand it. Which is maybe what you’re trying to accomplish anyways? Note: it is working. 
Our world keeps moving, altered by the moment, and we can’t seem to keep you from the constant ebb and flow. Worry has a new name, and it is motherhood. This month has been awfully hard, my daughter. Our dear friend passed away, and I worry, sometimes, that maybe all of my sorrow is trickling through my milk and down your throat, that maybe I am giving you a taste of what’s to come in this broken world, that maybe I have accidently shared a sadness I never meant for you to hold…I worry about that.

Also, I read somewhere today that I should start feeding you little bits of meat, blended up with your veggies. I was outraged. Meat? You’re a baby! I read all these crazy baby food recipes calling for ingredients like cinnamon and olive oil and parsley. Spices? I think not. You can have a banana and that is IT.
Otherwise I might have to admit that the sharp little point on your bottom gum is a tooth, and I might have to put away your bunny chair that is much too small for you, and I might have to lower your crib in case you try to roll out, and I might have be thankful that you are a healthy, growing baby, and I might have to stop being such a weirdo about your natural progression through childhood. 
And we wouldn’t want that, right Smooch? 🙂
Little girl. I should call some scientist in some lab, somewhere. Because there is no mystery about the Universe continually expanding. It’s simple. Our love for you cannot be contained in our hearts, this city, planet, or solar system. Obviously it is pushing the stars out of the way so it can explode past their glowing heat.
Obviously. 

Happy 7 Months, Clara Horney.
Take this embarassing, kooky love and do something grand! 
We’ll just be over here admiring you, biased as all get out and completely unapologetic. 
We love you, Smoochie. Oh so much. 

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