I love my daughter's feet (my daughter--still sounds so unreal, like saying "my Pulitzer" or "my New York Times bestseller"). I love the way they look: like a misaligned stack of thickly cut Spam (well, just two pieces, actually), with Alaminos longganisa toes. I love the way they feel, so soft yet substantial. I love the way her toes flex and curl. I love how I know she's awake without her making a sound, when I see her feet up in the air, barely visible over the top of her crib. I laugh at the peremptory way she parks a foot on my breast when she's feeding, as if laying claim. I love the small spots of warmth when her feet rest on my thighs. Or when her tiny toes knead my arm. Strangely, I love the way they smell on a hot day: slightly sour, slightly pungent--baby catchichas! But only under the toes of her right foot. I love the strength in them, as she kicks, kicks, kicks away; stomps in her tub; or grasps her toys between them. I know someday these feet are going to walk away from me: as she goes to her classroom on her first day of school; as she stomps away when we fight; as she moves on to live her own life. But today, I hold her beautiful baby feet in my hands, saying, "Can Mommy have these feet?" And with a laugh, my daughter gives them to me.