My house is a mess this morning. June’s toys lay spread across the living room floor like a battlefield. Intentionally, she has left a slain army on the floor without regret. And so, I carefully maneuver my way through the room, avoiding rattle landmines and wooden block traps. I could have picked up the mess last night before I went to bed, but I was exhausted from travel and eager to read a chapter in my new book. What’s the point? I asked myself. She’ll only repeat this mess in the morning. From the other end of the room, I stand there, looking at the disastrous quake and smiling. I…

June Bea has a slow and steady giggle all day that goes something like, “huh… Hu hu huh.” She makes it when she is alone or in a crowd. It doesn’t seem to matter who’s around or who’s not. It isn’t a laugh for attention or effect; it’s a genuine reaction to the moment. And the moments that cause this happy reaction are many: when she attains a toy she wants, when she makes eye contact with me, when I turn the radio on, when she’s sitting in the tub, when she’s playing in her saucer, when I pull her from her crib, when the seatbelt on her car seat…