Holding her tiny hand, I look down to see her clutching the doll tightly to her chest. Her skin is soft, and her fingers, entwined in mine, give a slight squeeze. I smile inside when the tiny bunnies painted on her nails catch my eye.
I say a silent prayer of thanks for someone up above who knew that I needed to girl up my life by having her in it.
Before she came, nobody wore pink. I was the only one who ever listened to Broadway show tunes. And the tears that fall inevitably during movies like Charlotte's Web? Until she came, they were mine alone.
Now, it is her cheeks that I wipe tenderly at the movie theater. It is our shared conspiracy when we pick musicals for family movie nights, knowing those boys of ours won't like it one bit. It is her eye that catches mine and smiles when we see them squirm. We're a team now, she and I.
It is she, this tough little chica, who still likes to climb in for a snuggle with her mama at three in the morning. She, who mocks me for eating the same thing every day for lunch, but yet turns and does it herself.
And sometimes, when looking at her, I feel as though I am looking into a mirror. But then at in a flash, she is off, and it makes me sigh in wonder at this unique person that is all her own.
She is baby and princess, teenage-wannabe and wise sage, all rolled into one. She is delicate and tender, but still not afraid to climb trees with the boys. She knows what she wants, and is impatiently waiting for life to deliver it. She's my very own spice girl.
And I wouldn't trade her for the world.