I love my husband incredibly, more now in our wonderful life together than even during that smitten phase when we first met. I love my family (well, what's left of it). I love my friends fiercely. I love my pets (well, most of them).
But I am struck every day with the way I love my daughter, almost to distraction.
I love how sweet she is, how she tries to do nice things for us when she thinks of them. I love her questions. I love her phonetic spelling (she's thankful for "trce" — think about it, yes, "turkey"). I love the way she dances, a natural ballerina. I love the way she is always doing projects. I love the way she puts her hands on her hips and says "humph." I love her long legs, and tiny waist, and curly hair, and richly-lashed blue eyes. I love her art and her music. I love the way she pouts just like my mom. I love it when she tries and appreciates new food. I love her babbling on to tell us things, and her questions about how things work. I love her little snore when she is finally asleep. I love the way stories are real to her. I love how much she tries to be just like me (and is). My first thoughts upon waking up are of her (well, because she often wakes me up), and even when we try to go out on date nights, we'll talk about how amazing she is.
There are a lot of parts of parenthood I never expected. But top among them, amazing me every day, is this crazy, wonderful, heart-swelling love.