I catch the above photo in a kneejerk reaction as she’s running toward me.  This is what she looks like when she’s running from Dan.  He scoops her up and soars her in the air, and she shrieks with delight.

Wow.  Woooow.  We say this to her over and over again, about things we see along the way, and she mimics us, pursing her lips first to form the first W, then making her mouth into a wide O, then pursing them again for the final W.  She whispers it over and over to herself.

At one point, she’s in the stroller, and she’s singing at the top of her lungs.  We recognize a phrase she keeps repeating.  We record it, so we can ask our Russian friends what she’s saying, if anything.  For all we know, she’s singing, “These people are not my parents.  These people are not my parents.”  And we’re laughing, unaware, as passersby look at us in horror.

When Dan makes his way past the boardwalk, onto the rocks of the beach, she screams out “Papa” and holds her hands out to him.  He comes back grinning and takes her out of the stroller.  He walks her out to where the waves are crashing on shore, and she’s mesmerized.  Dan lets her down, and she picks up rock after rock.  They are the smooth pebble kind–and also the kind she wants to put in her mouth.  I’m sure they’re salty.  She and Dan dig holes in the rocks, then cover them back up.  She could do this for hours.

Later, a singer sets up shop along the boardwalk, and strangely enough, since there’s not a beat to the song, Liliana’s not interested.  Instead, she cups Dan’s face in her little hands and swipes them across his whiskers.  She kisses him over and over on the face.  When I approach, she holds out her hand and lays it on my chest.  “Mama,” she says.  Then back to Papa.  Same hand on his chest.  “Papa.”

Can I just say that all that pain and heartache was worth just this moment?