My munchkin is 25 months old today.
We're a month into the third year, which is just plain madness.
We've entered a "twirly dress" phase.
She despises pants and refuses to wear them.
My mother is loving it, because apparently I shared the same penchant for all things frilly when I was a toddler.
She no longer permits me to choose her outfits, which is slightly devastating to me because I thoroughly enjoyed having a little doll to dress up every day.
She's got the legs I've always wanted but never had, and by George she can rock a miniskirt like no one's business.
Now, if it doesn't have pink, ruffles or some kind of frufru, she's not interested.
She's ready and willing to twirl on demand.
I've got a girly girl on my hands, through and through.
And I love it.
She loves to help out in the kitchen.
The utensil drawer is her favorite thing to peruse in the house.
If only I could get her to eat.
She's still obsessed with Band Aids, which she calls "head bands."
I think she wants people to think we beat her.
She is a wonderful sister to her little brother.
She is constantly smothering him with hugs and kisses, runs to his side when he fusses and tells me to "be careful" when I'm changing his diaper.
She's loyal and caring and sweet and I could not be more grateful.
She even takes it upon herself to look after his personal grooming.
Too bad she mistook a pumice stone brush for a comb.
Despite the gigantic welts on his forehead, he was happy as a clam to get the attention from his sister.
He adores her.
She is so full of sass and spunk.
She regularly tells Reece and I to "scop it" (stop it) and rolls her eyes at me often.
In her defense, I usually deserve it.
She loves to tell stories, sing songs, shake her booty and boss people around.
She is our world and we love her so very, very much.