I'm not saying this is all bad, mind you. She is smart and funny, and every day she adds some new trick to the mix: suddenly unable to bear loud noises, like the toilet flushing or the mixer in the kitchen; answering questions with a very serious "yeth;" insisting on wearing oversized Tinkerbell jams to bed (every night); telling a joke; eating and eating and eating, til I am quite sure she will bust. Or, eating nothing at all.
This is also quite exhausting on all fronts. She is a whirlwind that requires constant chasing and a sensitive little soul whose heart requires constant tending. She never - ever - stops talking, and requires constant conversation. Sara's mind is always thinking, figuring, planning, analyzing. Her world gets bigger by the minute -- and it's not ready for her, let me tell you.
So at the end of the day, when she grudgingly gives in to her little body's demands for rest, I'm always surprised to find the most wonderful thing: 36 inches of peace. 36 inches of warm, steady breaths on my cheek and soft small hands smoothing my hair. 36 inches of arms and legs kept warm in her favorite footie jams, finally still. 36 inches of cozy, her body not too hot (like her father) or too foreign (like everyone else), but just right. 36 inches of innocence and promise and faith and hope and unconditional love.
36 inches that breaks my heart and makes my life, every single day.
Sweet, silent, peace.