BabyCakes, my sweet second -- I mean YOUNGEST AND ALWAYS WILL BE YOUNGEST -- child is at a great age. (Whew, writing "second" scared me there for a bit. Grandparents, don't get any funny ideas.)
Eighteen months seems to be the amount of time she needed to really take that personality of hers and run!
Now, as my friend Rachel and I like to
But as I said, my little
Even if she does eat cro.tch cheerios.
(Why do they taste better after being marinated in mystery carseat nastiness?)
AND proudly dumps entire cups of chocolate protein shake she stole from her brother all over herself.
AND if she does have a strange first-word-inducing fascination with shoes.
(I know. I'm the only woman in America who doesn't get into shoes. Can you blame with with my hobbit feet? At least I ventured into the world of wedges this summer. They're like heels with training wheels and it turns out I like them. For short periods, anyway.)
But she's always just done her own thing.
Held her own in bouncy houses and playing with the big boys.
Busted through whatever obstacles she encountered. That is, if she even saw them as obstacles.
In the 18 months I have had the privilege of knowing her, I've fallen deeply in love with the independent, beautiful, strong, funny, boisterous, loving little person she is.
I'm so glad she was born an American. So glad that I am an American.
There are many places in this world where being born a female means a very certain unenviable fate.
Millions and millions of girls and women who never hear the phrase "you can do anything you put your mind to." Heck, who never even have enough food to eat.
BabyCakes, our ever-shrinking world may try to assign a low value to your worth.
You might love shoes and pink and all things sparkling and flowery.
But you will never, ever, EVER be "just a