Violet said, "I want this skull Mama. Put it right here."
She is no longer the simple creature who only wanted warmth and milk and a dry behind. The easily persuaded Mistress of Pink is fading. I am starting to see something new peek out around the edges. Not a Big Girl (that decidedly condescending term for the small and recently toilet trained), but just a girl.
Her moods are stormier, her limbs more difficult to fit into the small space of my lap. I now groan involuntarily when I pick her up. I don't have to pretend that she is heavy anymore. Violet flirts constantly with that terrible edge overlooking the land of insufferable brattiness. Everyday, she touches the line and then sprints back to more lovable territory. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
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