Amazing Love, my eight pounds of joy, the seventh of my great granddaughters. I hold you and marvel that love multiplies so. After giving a full measure of love six times over, I find I have a full measure for you also. I guess sort of like Jesus feeding the five thousand—plenty to go around and none suffer because the pie is multiplying instead of dividing.
You are so beautiful, so perfect to behold. The doctors say you are imperfect in ways I cannot see. Imperfect? They are wrong. You a perfectly YOU, my Joy, my Love.