Thursday night, while your Dad finished up some paper work, we walked McLean’s lovely grounds on the first convincing spring night of the year, 60 degrees and a full moon (a blue one, since there was no full moon in February). You were happy enough, walking in the Baby Bjorn and singing, but about half way we stopped to nurse outside the McLean library. As usual, when you were done you re-emerged, dripping milk from the sides of your mouth, grinning and ready to play. Happily, a group of women was walking into the library and you caught their eye with a huge grin (from my end, looking down at you in the snuggly, all I see is the little round tops of your cheeks moving up and in, and then register the pleasure on the face of whomever you’ve bestowed your smile on). They stopped to talk for a moment, you standing on my legs, and they they moved on. You pivoted to watch them go and your face fell, turning quizzical and disappointed.  Where did they go? Why weren’t they staying to talk? It made me sad for you – probably sadder than you – such sweet-hearted interest, met by connection, but transient, non-enduring connection. You’re lucky for all the people who love you, but the world has its disappointments, links that don’t quite join, welcomes that are declined. I wish I could shield you from them.

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