"I love your enthusiasm!" she laughed.
"It's exciting! I can't help it!"
This is for my baby girl, the first baby I felt really comfortable with. She's still my baby to this day, not aging, trapped by the autism. She's four now, was two years and ten months when I met her. Has gone from one sound, "mo," to approximations for pinwheel and bubble. My baby girl smiles and runs to me when I tell her to come to me. She sits eagerly at my feet while I pull out the data sheets and toys I'll need for the session. We spent half of yesterday's session in her living room cuddling. She'd stand and look up at me, arms outstretched, and ask me "uppa, uppa," for up. I'd pick her up and she'd snuggle against me, tiny arms finding their way between mine, head against my chest. I'd hold her for ten, fifteen seconds, then put her down. She'd dance on tiptoes, then giggle and smile, and reach again, uppa, uppa!"
"Of course I'll pick you up, baby girl," I'd say. "If you're going to ask so nicely, of course."
Her mother was talking today at the team meeting about how we're all fond of the girls, and my baby and her twin sister are fond of all of us. "But she'll always be Amanda's baby, I think," the mother said, smiling.
She's not at all wrong.
I have so many good things to count.