For thirty-nine weeks and one entire day, these toes grew within me. I felt them, at first just tickles and later, as it neared the time of her arrival, they were knock out jabs.
Ten, tiny, perfect toes, formed from mere cells. Ten toes that at first were purple, the tender skin peeling as it does those early weeks, but wonderful, fragile, immaculate.
These ten toes are now nearing the age of five, and as much as I wish they'd stay small, I know they won't. They'll be stubbed, stepped on, crushed. Perhaps, they'll cram into heels, kick a wall in anger, and eventually, these toes will walk my sweet girl down an aisle.
Ten beautiful toes, that will carry her through the very best, and utmost difficult days. They'll be there, where her feet hit the floor, whether I can be there for her, or not. Toes I had a part in creating, toes I had the pleasure of kissing and washing, of clipping and polishing.
I pray that the toes and the girl they belong to know, with every bit of my being, that they're fearfully and wonderfully made. They'll do great things, see great sights, walk sacred walks, and carry this most wonderful girl, through a most amazing life.
If I do one thing, as her mother, I hope she knows these things to be true, that from the top of her head, to the bottom of her feet, she is a treasure, a gift, a strong and incredible creation.
I'd like to think that one day, she will carry on a legacy with her own children, one of treasuring every small bit, but especially, their ten, tiny, toes.
