On Being Girls

You climb in my lap and take my library book from me, as I am three pages from the end. You open the pages, nothing but small black text on creamy white paper and trace your finger along the sentences. You want to know what I am looking at, what words I am filtering through my brain.

You dig in my purse and smear tangerine chapstick all over your lips. Then, you had me the tube to do the same.

We spend a lot of time in the bathroom, you on your mini pink throne, and I in front of you, your muse. I paint your toenails the same exact pink color as mine. You sit perfectly still, whispering, pretty.

You cried on our way home last week because you wanted my headband. I passed it back to you and you slipped it over your head and let it rest on your neck until we pulled in the driveway.

As you and Daddy snack, you always get enough to share with me.



You line up my flip-flops in the entryway in correct pairs. You bang your babydolls on my thighs as I am making dinner, asking politely for help with their blankets, hats, pacifiers.

I let you sip my iced mocha from the straw.

You dig through your laundry basket to find your favorite articles of clothing- you pull them over your existing outfit and smile big.

I've always said being a girl is the very best thing there is. And having you as my girl has confirmed that I was right all along.