The Many Faces of Piper

I look at Piper most days and wonder where in the world she came from. I'm still trying to decide if it's okay to love her, trying to figure out what to do with her. She's not me, and she's not Pete, and she's not simply a "baby." She's her. She's her own person. I'll probably sock the first person who tries to tell me she's just too young to be doing or thinking or feeling certain things. I see her. I see her soul in her eyes.

Every time I look at her face, she's grown--there is something new there.

I have seen fear, trembling on the edge of her poochie lip as she decides whether or not she is safe or not after a loud noise that startles her.

I have seen anger: complete "eat spit and die" frustration when she has to have her tummy time or when she can't get through to us what she really wants.

I have seen mischief, like earlier today when she was sitting next to me at the computer when I was not getting anything done. She started making little noises to get my attention, and when I told her that she needed to be napping, she gave me the funniest little grin, as if to say, "I know that I'm up and should be asleep, but don't you think I'm cute?"

I've seen her wide-eyed wonder and her intense fascination. I've seen her duck her head and hide her grin pretending to be shy. I've seen her stop in the middle of a cranky session and change her focus so she won't smile at me because she just *wants* to be cranky.

My favorite look in the world, though, is the one that she gives me when she wakes up in the morning and all is right with the world and she knows it's Mommy and she feels so safe. I see the trust in her eyes as she smiles softly up at me, and I know that she loves me too. That one look is worth all of the overwhelming changes in my life. There is no memory in her eyes of imagined neglect or angry frustration or thwarted hunger.

That face is the one that tells me of grace.