My three year old daughter rules our house with an iron fist. Sure she has a wrist full of silly bands, an older brother’s Star Wars t-shirt cum ballerina dress, and a pink tutu, but she is totally in charge. When she barks an instruction, we jump to attention and follow it because no one is willing to suffer her wrath… all 30 pounds of it.

Nevertheless, she is still my baby girl. My little pink princess baby girl. Although she made a bit of a step forward. She left her crib behind this week and moved up to her “big girl bed.” No more Glenna Jean bedding crib sheets and vertically sliding crib walls. She’s got a twin with a Jenny Lind headboard from the 60s (the same one I inherited in the 70s) and it’s all alright.