It’s been done to death, but it hasn’t been done in this way, for this baby.

Finley. My sweet little Fin. She is just past the three month mark and she has me held blissfully captive. I will sit at my computer waiting for the words to come, whether for an email or a blog entry, and I will be drawn away. Inevitably I will lift my head from the screen to find her watching me.

Her face is an intoxicating blend of Briar and Avery, but more than that, it is Fin. Her eyes are deep and dark, a stormy sapphire ringed with a startling shimmer of icy blue. They sit within a face so pure it steals my breath, smooth skin that seems at once porcelain and caramel, healthy and unblemished. Her nose and lips are a study in symmetry and just as I wonder if perhaps I have done something wrong, her eyes flash and in a moment she is one smile extending from dark silky curls to petal soft toes.

I can feel my body loosen, a virtual puddle in my chair as the space between her eyes maps the journey of a lifetime—fold after fold, wrinkle after wrinkle, her smile echoes across her face. I imagine the months and years ahead, the changes that will pass, but the enduringness of her, of the way that even now, she is who she will be.

I lower my face to hers, her face calm, patient. Her smile softens and she waits and as I lean into kiss her she turns, raising her face to mine and we touch. The press of her cheek on mine is more hug than any arms have given me, her quiet lips a stronger I love you than any voice has uttered. I lift her in my arms and a warmth envelopes me, holding her tight and close I am alive, the flutters of her in my belly like distant church bells.

We sway in song. Mama and baby. Me and Fin. A wrinkle in time.