Three.

"Make me a braidy braid, Mama! Please?!" she shrieks, and I oblige, because let's be honest, from the minute they tell you it's a girl, you dream about doing stuff like that.

 

Pigtails, too. 

Make no mistake, though-- despite her clearly-communicated hair preferences, she goes from "coiffed" to "naked, disheveled, and frankly indistinguishable from a street urchin" in the blink of an eye, and wears her food as much as she eats it. She also sometimes sets the ol' makeup gun on "whore."

 

 
She's my goofball.

  

 

She loves blocks, coloring, singing with her brother, running (away), and playing with her dolls, all of which she has named after our downstairs neighbor, and tumbling and swimming.

  

She loves to act like a big girl, but when she goes to sleep at night, she tells me to "tuck [her] in like a born baby," (A "BORN BABY.") which is reminiscent of a cocoon. She adores playing dress-up and "Let's Go to Work," which, from what I can tell, basically entails putting on sparkly Lip Smackers, scarves, and jewelry. (Look, I know it's SOMEone's job, but I promise, it's not mine.) Then we have to scribble on paper with a deeply furrowed brow and pretend to talk on the phone, which, okay, may be something she picked up from me.

She makes me tell her stories about my wedding, and also about Princess Kate Who Is Really a Princess, and yes, Princess Kate totally has that Target swim cover-up, I swear, so you should wear it today, too, baby girl, okay?

She balances her brother; she brings him out of his shell, and he calms her inherent nuttiness. They're a perfect pair.

 

She has a fearless confidence that I frankly wish I had now, and hope she always retains, and even though her expressions occasionally scare the crap out of me...

 

...I'm happy she's no wallflower.

Happy third birthday, baby girl.

(Ice cream cake picnic on the floor, as we are MOVING TOMORROW, OH MY HELL.)