"Elle est tellement mignonne," my father-in-law says of Mademoiselle, cooing over the tiny head that is visible in the baby carrier.
"Non," my mother-in-law corrects him, "Elle n'est pass mignonne. Elle est belle."
She's not cute, she insists. She's beautiful. I don't know whether to agree or not, for to me she's both, but I am warmed to see how passionately loved she is already.
My mother-in-law sees smiles that I still can't quite see. Mademoiselle's expression of well-being, when she's happy and comfy and steadily looking at another person in her world, comes close, but I'm not sure I really think it's a smile. She doesn't smile in her sleep, either, and I haven't seen the famous, vague "sourires aux anges," or "angel smiles" of newborns.
She's been here less than two months and I already have a hard time remembering life before. I think I'm not the only one.