Dear Vulva Baby,
You are a delight.
You are also a second child, which means I have not written to/of/about you as much as you deserve, and as a second child, I know, I know exactly how much that will hurt when you realize it.
But now, on the day you turn six months old, let me take a moment to say the things I feel no less deeply for not saying them as frequently.
You are a delight: I delight in you, and you bring light and joy wherever you go. You smile and flirt with everyone, snuggle and love those you trust, and communicate more and better than any baby I’ve met.
You are strong: from turning yourself top side up (if wrong way round) the day before you were born, holding your head up on your own the day after, and standing, standing, standing strong on your deliciously thick and rolly thighs, you are of and in your body so fully and adeptly.
You make us laugh, and you play with us so well, asking for the games you know in ways so clever it takes my breath away. Of course you cry, of course you get cranky and tired and needful, but only when you have a need, and when it is met, you play, play, play.
You are already a music star.
I have so many fears for your future, so many worries, so many things it kills me to not be able to control. But you: you draw me out, bring me back, and help me stay here, with you-now.
There are so many more things I want to tell you of you — the way you laugh when we play bite your ribs, the way you learned to nurse politely within a week of cutting a tooth, the way you shriek with joy when seeing your brother, the dog, the cat, the way you stuff as many fingers in your mouth as possible — but most of all, most of all, I wish I could convey to you the way I love you. It is vast, and deep, and words fail me because there is nothing unique in this, my love for you, except you. Bubbly, beloved, bouncing, bright you. And I am hopelessly, hopefully, unceasingly in love with you.
Happy half birthday, my second-born, my baby-child. I love you.