Baby has been crying for two minutes and seventeen seconds and I am going to pick her up. Is she spoiled? Of course not. I'm the one who is spoiled; she flatters me so.
She thinks I am funnier than anyone else we know. My jokes may roll over and die at a party, but when I say ''shicky boo'' or ''butterball Beth" to her she gets the giggles.
She gives me the impression that I am more than passably pretty. She never gets a horrified look on her little pink face when I show up in curlers and a ragged duster, She never noticed the wrinkles on my face: she doesn't care how rough my hands are. She loves me just as I am.
She lets me know that I am her favorite person. She may cry when others take her; she may stare at them with that bewildered baby look. But I get that charming toothless grin every time.
She gurgles with glee at bathtime. She happily wears the clothes I select for her. She doesn't complain if they once belonged to big sister.
Six big buttons sewed on a bright strip of felt beside her crib and she is pleased with me. She thinks I am very creative.
She likes my singing. Others may cringe, but my crooning lullaby quickly and gently turns her tears to peaceful sleep.
She trusts me. Oh, how she trusts me! I can do no wrong in her eyes. She thinks I can do anything and trusts me absolutely to do it in exactly the way it should be done. No one will ever trust me that much again.
She pleases me. There is joy in simply touching her rumpled hair. The dimple in her knee is adorable: the perfectness of her body is one of the seven wonders.
So I am going to pick her up. Tomorrow there may not be so much pleasure in contemplating the cute little creases in her ears. Tomorrow she might not grasp my hand as tightly as she will today. The day after that she will want to ride off on her tricycle to play with her own friends. And the day after....I am going to pick her up, now!

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