Her codename is “Sparklepants”.
She’s 4. She likes Shopkins and princesses and Barbies and jumping in the pool over and over and over again.
She is fierce and fearless and beautiful. She refuses to eat foods that are not carbohydrates, and she sometimes tells lies.
She is beautiful in the way you imagine a fairy-baby would be, in the way that makes me look at her while she’s asleep and wonder how she possibly could have come from me.
She screams when you come near her with a hairbrush, but doesn’t want her waist-length, golden, fairy-tale hair cut short. She will not acknowledge the logic behind having shorter hair if you don’t like having your hair brushed.
She is polite and bright and remembers everything, from where she hid your earrings to the time you promised that you would go to the water park “someday”.
She is my buddy, my shadow, and though she looks more like her dad’s side of the family, she acts just like me.
I’m not too worried about whether or not she will succeed in whatever life she chooses to have. I am, however, a little worried for anyone who tries to stop her.