On the first day of her life, I laid her on my belly and let her search for milk.  She quieted and focused her efforts.  She sniffed, mewed, and propelled her body forward until she came to my nipple.  Exhausted by her effort, she collapsed upon my breast.  She took a few deep breaths and then she moved forward again and latched.

And on the first day that she walked, I set her on the floor and let her decide what to do.  She quieted and focused her efforts.  She extended her arms and thrust her chest forward and her feet thudded against the floor as she went.  Elated at her success, she came to me.  She nuzzled against my skin and took a few deep breaths.  Then her fist flew up in the air, pumping, signing for milk.

And on the first day that she jumped, I hopped alongside her, urging her to continue, promising her that she almost had it.  She quieted and focused her efforts.  She considered, squatted, and lifted into the air.  Then she did it again and again and again.  Satisfied with her accomplishment, she ran into my arms and pressed her nose between my breasts.  She sighed happily and asked politely if she could please have milk.  I nodded.  She pushed aside my shirt and made sweet, contented sounds as she nursed.

Her grandparents gave her a scooter for her birthday.

On the first day, she placed her hands before her on the handlebars and the scooter wobbled unpredictably.  She insisted on being pushed about for a moment and then she was done.

But on the second day, she began to improve.  On the third day, she spent hours scootering back and forth in the shade of a tree.  On the fourth day, she spent more than half of her day pushing and sailing down the road.

As the days rolled by, she quieted and focused her efforts.  She tried first this and then that.  She fell less frequently.  She accustomed herself to the helmet.  She learned how to maneuver over speed bumps, around corners, in small circles, and through simple obstacle courses that I set out for her.

Then she came to me.  Exhausted by her effort.  Elated at her success.  Satisfied with her accomplishment.  Her body melted against mine, our skin the same skin, and then she shifted so that she could lay her head between my breasts.  She patted them.

These breasts have sustained her.  They have comforted her.  They have taught her.  They have distracted her from harm, they have treated her when ill, they have given us quiet moments to reconnect.

“Momma,” she says, “I think I will drink some of your milk when I wake up tomorrow morning.  Does that sound like a plan?”

I shrug.  Sure it does, I say.  “But right now,” she continues, “I will just lay with my head right here and I will close my eyes and maybe find a little dream about wearing my blue helmet and riding my scooter.”