The Little Questions She Asks

She tells me most things while she's in the bathtub, the warm water up around her ears, bubbles surrounding her fingers. And she asks me things, too.

"Mommy, what was your favorite day?"

I smiled but paused. She looked worried, reconsidered.

"I mean, what were your TWO favorite days?"

"When I married Daddy and when you were born, of course."

"Were you so happy when I was born?"

"Yes. I'd been waiting a long time to meet you."

She curled her little toes against the rubber duck floating by the faucet and smiled. And I smiled, surprised by the lump suddenly in my throat.

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I'm glad she asks, because even though I tell her every day I love her, I forget to tell her that she is more important to me than any book, any accomplishment, any present. I very much need the chance to look her in the eye and tell her the day she was born was one of the two days in my entire life that will always float to the top of best moments, that she need never worry about the security of my love.