You're such a sweetheart, Violet. I want you to know that about your babyhood: you are sweet and even-tempered. You're so sweet, in fact, that you take my breath away. You make me gasp and exclaim, "You are the CUTEST baby!" (Your sister being the cutest toddler, of course. I am nothing if not fair).

You're ticklish - especially under the chin, on the sides of your neck and right near the bottom of your little ribcage. You like when I call you "cutie" in a really sickeningly syrupy voice, drawing out the oooooh in the word and smiling while I say it. Today, you smiled while you were strapped into your carseat and your dad leaned in with his head resting against the hood of the seat so that he was all you could see, and he quietly sang along to the Iron & Wine song playing in the other room. You also smiled today when I carried you into the bathroom so that you could see your reflection.

You smile quickly, too, like you've been holding it back all day just waiting for the right moment to use it. Finally, your smiles say. Finally I can show you this thing I can do. Though it happens quickly, your smiles start in your eyes - a brightness, a little gleam - and then a grin, and then an open-mouthed, cheek-transforming smile. Sometimes my cheeks hurt because I smile back at you so widely. I don't even mean to do it; it's just this immediate reaction to your smile - my face contorts into this weird spasm of delight.

This is not to say you don't fuss, though. You cry, too, though not very often. Usually not at all if I'm around. I think you like me, which is cool, because probably one day you will not like me this much. Probably one day in the near future, like when you are at your sister's age now and you physically stop my hands from doing the itsy-bitsy spider thing and shake your head no at me. And then actually cry if I keep trying to do it. That day will suck, so I'm enjoying you all I can right now. When you cry, it's over the obvious things and easily remedied. Your cries say (not at all at once, of course): "I'm tired," "I'm hungry," "I'm gassy," "I pooped," "I'm lonely," or "It hurts when my sister hits me in the face with the telephone."

Sometimes I worry that I'm not giving you enough, Violet. When your sister was your age now I was able to spend so much time with her. Now, my time is split, and much of my day is spent trying to keep Mad happy while I try to squeeze in some time to at least catch a smile from you. Honestly, I just don't know if I'm doing it right, this parenting-of-two-babies thing. I try to maintain a balance during the day, a harmony, but it's hard when even feeding you means Mad is either getting into something she shouldn't, zoned out in front of the TV or pointing purposefully down at the ground and shaking her head at me while saying, "scissor rye dare," which translates to "sister right there." (In other words, "remove the sister from your body and put her on the floor, please").

What I'm trying to remember is that there is no right to this parenting thing. Well, except the obvious: don't set your baby on fire, for example. (And if that's all we're judging it on, then awesome. I win at parenting). I am doing the best I can, and the best I can is to love you and your sister with everything I have. And I'm doing that. Even on the hardest, longest day of parenting, one in which I feel I make many mistakes and missteps, at the end of it - your smiles still have the ability to flip it upside down and make it all seem okay.

Plus, you aren't on fire, usually, so it's win-win.