Given the way this little girl tears through the day, I have to scramble to get pictures of any special hairdo, as it’s sure to need re-doing in short order.  But I am pleased as punch that for the most part, she likes having her hair fixed: she sits relatively still and points out any barrettes and bows I may have set out and failed to use.  Her greatest delight in this area, however, is to comb her own hair–not only before but also after I’ve fixed it.  So the process involves repeatedly whisking the comb out of sight, behind my back or into a pocket.  We mamas are tricky.

I love that after the sweet pensiveness of the first two pictures above, the third is popping with her zesty little personality.  I’m here! she says.  It’s me! Let’s go have some FUN. See that mischief in her eye?  That’s trouble.  That’s everyone’s shoes strewn about the house because she’s been trying them on: mine, her daddy’s, her brother’s, her Opa’s.  That’s a trail of kids’ plates and bowls (clean, mind you) that she extracts from their drawer and drops through all the downstairs rooms–just in case she can’t find her way back to the kitchen, I suppose.  That’s the stubborn wails that erupt when I actually want to have a turn with my own hand broom and dustpan to sweep the floor.  That’s the little feet that patter gleefully after her brothers, everywhere they go.  And that’s the same set of little feet that scamper along for a 6-block walk, delightedly doing double-time because her legs are so much tinier than everyone else’s.

Tonight I was biting back my impatience as she pulled out the toys her brothers had just put away, preferred to rifle through my pans rather than play with hers, and thought a late night was the perfect time to decorate the bathroom floor with all the bath toys.  But oh, she is sweet: handing me her empty bottle and chirping, “Ah-gone!  Good giwrl!” and pointing at the mobile above her changing table with a cheery, “On?”  We had a little snuggle then, but I’m thinking I might need to go back and get her sleeping self out of the crib for another.

That’s my girl.

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