No wonder they call babies bundles of joy

(“Latte, Latte”, she says to me. It’s a biscuit in the shape of a dog.)

The missy has always been a dream to be out with. Even more so these days. We go a-walking about town in our pumps. She weaves in and out the swirly hems of long dresses. We go up and down the slides. She squeals in delight. We go lounging in the coffee joints. She says ‘NOOO’ to my cuppa because I once told her with a scrounged-up face that babies can’t drink coffee. We sit in the soft sunshine, loving the warmth the morning brings. She doodles with her Crayola markers, then whines that her hands are dirty. I wet-wipe them, and she goes about making them dirty again. I pack ourselves lunchboxes, we eat with our sporks, and we laugh at each other with Calrose rice grains on our faces. I take pictures of her, she smiles her camera-scowl, and we laugh again.

With mommy-tinted glasses, this is as perfect as it can get.