Dear daughter, 

I wrote this for you while you were sleeping, dreaming

I love you, when I pick you up and you stop crying,

and your heads rests once again lolling, eyes closed,

and I am poised for your cry,

but it doesn't come, not yet at least, and wow, the peace.

The kindness in my heart, that wasn't there while you were awake

it grows and I think, I want to do this for you,

I want to write for you. 

When you are awake and I try to type,

with your noises and your hands whacking away at me,

I feel so angry, so resentful, and not a bit loving,

quite the opposite in fact, and now, how desperate you were 

for a moment, afraid of the crow cawing close, though far away from our window,

you came to me arms raised and eyes closed and I felt 

infinitely protective, I felt okay,

I didn't at all hesitate. 

Ah but let me think, surely, there must be some things about you

that I like. For example, when you pretend play, when you play by yourself,

when you give your teddy bears one domino each, making sure once,

and then twice, that they all have one, when you roll around on your back,

with your belly full, doing little things, like trying to touch the plate with your feet,

knowing it makes me angry, how you smile when you do it,

and you see that I see, and I smile when I see your smile because 

this irritation, floating so close to the surface, is not a reward for your misbehavior.

And here I thought I was a bad mom, turns out 

you're a little bit bad yourself.