Joy

Her name is Brinley and her middle name is Joy. And though I'm completely awkward with handling her floppy head and too-small body, everything about her points to her middle name: Joy.
Brinley is the third generation of women to be given the middle name Joy. Mom has it. Kearsen has it. Now Brinley has it.
I watch Kearsen moving about the house, patting backs, changing diapers, picking up, putting down, warming bottles, rubbing tummies. She's a mother, and I think it has just become inherent within her to "know" what to do.
Last night I held Brinley for a while, and we had smile time...which was really really cute. She smiles with her tongue out or makes a "ohhhh" noise, her lips in a perfect circle. But this time in a matter of minutes her smile turned to a pout and she wriggled and squirmed. "What's she doing?" I asked. "Just pooping. Or maybe she's stretching," Kearsen said. So I repositioned her and her alert eyes focused on the TV.
I have no clue what I'm doing, and I hope you don't mind, I thought. But I don't think she cared. I let her clasp my fingers tightly and slobber on my sleeve. And that, such a simple moment, gave me the greatest Joy I could ask for.