Her feet aren't quite as tiny as they were when we met. The weight of her head on my arm puts my hand to sleep. I am not as meticulous about cleaning each finger nail and removing each fleck of dirt or dog hair. She's scuffed up a bit. Bug bites and rug burn.
She's not as shiny as she was out of the box.
Neither are my engagement and wedding rings. The first (official) symbols of the love my husband and I share. They are scratched and need cleaned.
My little one is rounding the corner on 10 months old. She's a dream, wish, and a prayer all answered in one 20 pound bundle. Her gravitational pull on me is indescribable. I'm still as tempted to kiss her sleeping head as I was the day we brought her home -- I've also learned that kissing too soon opens eyes. Prolongs the process. I still want to hover over her crib while she sleeps, but that wakes her and then I have to army crawl out of the room cussing myself for moving the blanket that one last time.
I miss her while she's at daycare, and I pace when her nap runs a few minutes too long.
She's my angel, my clone, my torture, my smile.