L is a busy little girl. Somewhere in the past few days I realized she is two and a half, that she will soon be three. Three. THREE. And then she will be four, and then five. (See, I’ve basically figured out parenting already.)
Two and a half is a wonderful age. She is funny and sweet, kind and full of sauciness. Ask her how she enjoyed her weekend with her younger cousins and she will tell you “I pushed dem over!!”
She hides her milk cups all over the house, so that when I find them, we have fresh feta cheese. She rips off her sandals as soon as we get in the car, has regular meltdowns over yogurt and wearing pants, and constantly pushes me to the limit with her blatant defiance.
She will ask for lunch or supper and eat two bites. She will throw dirt and mud at the dog and laugh hysterically. She will embarrass me in public and mortify me in front of family when she tries to look at everyones boobs.
But when I lay down with her for a nap, and she slings her arms around me, its worth it. All the bad days, the tears, the screaming, the fits, everything negative dissolves.
When I put on a dress and she tells me I’m her beautiful mommy, its clear she will always be my favourite daughter. And when she gives me the last bite of her cookie, it nearly makes up for her biting our leather couches.
Tonight we took her to the fireworks, and watching her face light up was definitely worth the blow to the head from the calculator she threw at me today.