There’s a certain newly-eighteen-year-old cutie on my mind today. That would be the baby of my family, Miss Emily. Or Emma Lou, or Emma, or Itty Bit, or Bitty, or whatever else we have decided to call her in the last 18 year olds.
The day my parents brought Emily home from the hospital, I sat on the couch, holding her, looking at her in awe, and said, “I could never be mad at this baby.” And that was just about true. She’s a lovely little lady.
One time at the mall, I kept squeezing her arms and poking her and playing with her hair and she said, “ok. You need to stop touching me.” But I cannot. I love her too much.