I have just one question for you:
How on earth did you get to be thirty months?
You act so grown up.
You insist on making your own decisions -- you choose your outfits (always dresses or skirts), you choose your meals (to a degree -- fruit snacks are NOT a food group, as much as you'd like to convince me otherwise), you choose the movies we watch and the books we read, you choose which accessories are essential for public outings (let it be known that the pink pumpkin bucket is YOUR idea, just in case you see these pictures as a teenager and feel the urge to chastise your mother like I did mine) -- you are most certainly the queen of the world of the earth.
You love your books.
CATS is your bedtime story of choice, and I can't help but laugh every time you sound out "catastrophe!"
You love to dance -- spontaneous dance parties are not uncommon for us.
You love to sing -- Adele's "21" album is your current cup of tea, and you know (and belt) every word of "Yoya's song" (aka Someone Like You) every time we get in the car.
You love to pray, and don't take well to other people attempting to steal your duty at mealtimes.
Your bedtime prayers are the best part of our day.
You are one hundred percent girl.
If it's pink, sparkly or made of tulle -- you must have it.
Princess dresses are your uniform.
You love to cook in your pink kitchen.
You beg for tea parties by the hour.
You are so smart it scares us sometimes.
You observe everyone and everything in your little world, and you never, ever forget.
This is not awesome, because your dad and I slip up a little too much for comfort.
You are your brother's greatest advocate and his very best friend.
You insist on holding his hand as I change his diaper.
You make him laugh just by throwing a glance his way.
He adores you and you adore him.
You are a big goof.
Your favorite term of endearment (at least that's what we think it is) is "Caca Boy."
"I love you so much, you caca boy!"
I have absolutely no idea where you get these things.
You have a huge heart.
You are a daddy's girl through and through, but you still let me hold you tight when you're sad, sick or exhausted.
You stroke my hair and tell me I'm a beautiful girl and in those moments I would give you anything you asked if I could.
I love you so much, daughter of mine.