You are not me. You are not your father.
You’re yourself, which is awesome, because I don’t think the world needs another me, and if you were like your dad, you’d both be too quiet to approach each other.
You’re 2 and want to do everything yourself, and fully believe in the power to evict other members off playground structures.
You believe in the power of attorney, except for you are always the attorney.
You like Tinkerbell, and request seeing your own doody in your diaper, unless it happens to be in the potty. Then you just want chocolate.
You are 25 lbs.
You are pale, wispy-blonde-haired, and green-eyed.
We lose your numerous dolls everywhere.
I have rescued more princesses and fairies, and other creatures in one month than any superhero could have done in his or her lifetime.
When you go to bed, you request songs, and sometimes when I sing them, like a person fiddling with a radio dial, you demand a different song.
You know the Beatles and Elvis. Elvis from Dad, Beatles from me.
A dangerous lady, you continued to jump out of your crib, so we threw you in a bed.
You wake me every morning. I hear your door creak, and then I hear mine squeak open.
“Mommy, it’s so nice of you to share your bed.”
Like I had a choice?
You sneak into the bed and lie down next to me.
You are big-bellied, skinny-legged and tiny-tushied out.
I’m supposed to run after you on the sidewalk, and you don’t want to hold my hand in the street.
That’s when I carry your stubborn ass after trying numerous times to get you to hold my hand.
You horde pretzels, and would forsake me for a smoothie.
“Yes officer, my mother just dealt drugs. Give me a smoothie. Thanks cop. Bye mom. Enjoy Jail.”
You want to do everything yourself, besides change your clothes.
“No, you want to do it, ” you tell me, stubbornly refusing the position until you realize I won’t give in.
I will never give in too much. If I do, you will have me working as your servant for the rest of your life, and I’m afraid dear, that I’m not a submissive, although you do have my heart daughter.
I just hope you always hold positive snapshots of me in your mind. Forgive me for when I am not at my shiny-happy-people mommying best.
Remember me as I remember you always each day.
Lovely and my own.