Good morning little one.

I know you are not my baby anymore and no longer a little girl—but a splendid grown woman. But I can’t help thinking that way sometimes. Forgive me?

It’s still winter here. But I’ve been thinking about summertime. You would not remember July of 1986—balmy and unusually dry.

That summer, you were a toddling fifteen-month-old cutting a swath of curiosity-driven mayhem through the house and garden. Unless we were reading your favorite books or you were eating or asleep, you were moving, Geordie glued to your side.

One Saturday I had errands in Clinton. You stayed home with your daddy and Geordie. I was gone only three hours, but when I got home, your dad met me at the door, cradling you gently. He looked scared. For the first time in your life, you didn’t reach for me when you saw me. You didn’t seem to see me at all. Your beautiful golden-hazel eyes were glazed and your head heavy against your daddy’s chest.

Taking you in my arms, I asked, “What happened?” as I felt the heat rising from your small body, saw your wispy curls plastered to your head with perspiration. Your daddy explained that you’d fallen asleep on the floor after breakfast. When he checked on you, you were burning up. It happened incomprehensibly fast.

I sat down on the blue rocking chair on our porch and looked into your face. That’s when you tried to smile at me—cracking open my heart. Your normally rosy round cheeks were ashen. I heard the awful rattling sound of your breathing.

We spent that day and night with you in the hospital. I crawled into the giant crib to lie beside you, and watched you sleep under the oxygen hood. Your daddy paced the room. You sure showed us your Lisa grit. Not even pneumonia could hold you back. One night of medication and oxygen and the next morning you were chattering with the nurses, skillfully using your 25 words and filling in the gaps with giggles. We went home that evening. You slept 20 hours a day for a week—mostly in my arms. And then you were up and running again.

Love you lots. I’m already thinking about my next letter. Your first steps—captured on film!

Love, Momma