Your bow legged walk.
Your embarrassed smile when you're told no as you try to start up the stairs or dig in a plant.
Your chirps and your growls.
The way you pat your cousin's head.
Eleven month old you is my favorite you yet.
You are serious and sweet. Determined and tough. You pick yourself up from your falls. Your tears are easily kissed away.
When I hold Arlo or Jettie Blythe, you push them into someone else's arms, and then return to your play, leaving my lap bare for the moment you want to return to it.
In the mornings, you pull at my clothes, forcing me to greet the day with you perched atop my amble hips.
You beg to be tickled over and over again. You plead to be taken outside when you know your siblings have left you.
You want the whole wide world to pay attention to you. A fourth child who makes certain she will get her due.