Lollipop

Marley made a discovery before our morning run. She was playing on my bed while I stretched. As I raised my head from between my legs I heard the faint but distinctive sound of hard candy clacking against small teeth. She'd found a heart-shaped lollipop somewhere in the tangle of sheets. (I always love to see what little surprises await me when I pull back the covers.)

She had quietly taken the wrapper off and crawled to the far corner of the bed so as to enjoy her treasure in peace. I left her to it while I finished stretching. She was on Eric's side anyway.

Sometime later I put her sticky arms into her purple coat, strapped her into the jogging stroller and away we went, lollipop still in her hand. She would suck for a moment, take it out, contemplate its sugary goodness, then suck some more. Repeated, until half-way through the run I looked down to see that she was sound asleep, her little fist still curled tightly around the lollipop stick.

It made me think. What a happy surprise it must have been for her to discover the existence of lollipops. Not unlike the joy I felt at discovering the existence of her, and all that comes with her: painting a room pink, shopping for babydolls.

Never mind the sticky drool and cavities. Hold on to your lollipop, baby girl.