I'm sitting at Cultiva with my baby and I still can't get over the fact of it: my, that she's really mine, and baby, that she's real and sentient and so small and one day, will be her own and not mine at all.

She is a little bigger than she was yesterday, I think, and she has learned so many things in the last few days: to blow raspberries, to lick banana goo from a spoon, to shriek for the joy of hearing it.

She is uncertain about the wind, terrified of her Baba's sneezes, thinks Baba is the funniest person in the world. She is cute today in little jorts and suspenders with a polo onesie, adorable in zip-up footed pajamas, a wonder in just a diaper and chubby legs.

She loves her soft radish toys with the plastic ring and snuggles with Mama after eating. She drools bubbles and kicks, kicks, kicks in her bouncy seat and makes noises to get our attention when we dare to focus on anything else. Her laughter is the best sound in the world.

I want more than anything to protect her and surround her with love and community for all her life, her hopefully long, long life that is just getting started, but I know this is not something I can give her on my own. It takes a village, they say, and in our case it takes picnics and meetings and protests and postcards and phone calls and grandmas and aunts and coffee shop workers and neighbors and friends. Our beloved community. Building together the world we all want my sweet, sweet baby to grow up in.

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