Saturday, September 7, 2013

Golden Girl

My golden-haired girl turned three on the third. Golden birthday.

She has a Hello Kitty fetish. Thanks, McDonalds.
She sounds like Oprah on her Favorite Things giveaway when she announces what's on her mind, "It's myyyyyy BIRTHDAY!" "These are myyyyyyyy SPARKLE SHOES!"
She has a big voice.
She screams and it gives me headaches. It doesn't matter if they're happy or sad screams. They are so astonishingly loud.
She loves pink. I didn't encourage it.
She still calls her black stretchy leggings her 'Cat Girl pants.' She has not yet put in a request for this year's Halloween costume.
She was devastated when Go, Diego, Go! was removed from Netflix. She may have a thing for Latin boys. I think there's a famous Celine Dion song that put it best--her heart will go on.
She finishes her apples when they're whole and untouched. If I slice them into pieces, she'll only take some nibbles on its white flesh.

She's her father's daughter. I've told Boy that if he were born female he'd look just like her. And his name would have been Heather.
She runs like her dad.
She is a klutz. Always running into things. Just like her dad?
She is very smart--Dad.
She likes people--Dad.
She imposes conversations with strangers when we're out: the grocery, the library, her brother's school, the farm, the ladies' room. Um, yeah. It's obvious where she gets that from.

She loves animals. Like people, she imposes conversations with them too.
She was fearless with dogs until a few weeks ago. She used to stick her face right up to a dog and talk to it. Now, she belts out a blood-curdling scream when she sees them move toward her.
She sleeps with an entourage of stuffed animals.
She climbs into her brother's bed for nap time while he's away at school.
She loves her brother, but she knows how to set that kid off:  She'll talk while he is praying--takes his monkey George as if it belonged to her--knocks his building blocks down--and whaddya know? What goes around comes around.
She's kind of a punk.

She's happy when she has Pink Blanket and her left thumb. She asked for PB one day because she loved the way it smelled. I don't think she realizes that PB smells like dried up saliva. Again, I don't encourage it.
She calls her dad 'Daddy' in a squeaky high voice only when she wants something.
She has climbed into her baby brother's crib a handful of times, to my everlasting dismay. She and Teej make each other laugh, so I suppose it's okay?
She is not afraid of singing in public.
She has knows Primary songs better than most eight-year-olds at church.

She is oh, so different than I am. I find it curious that someone as explosive as she came from someone like me. She has inspired me more than she will ever know.

Happy Birthday, my Indy girl.