This morning, as Angel Face once again directed my behavior with an exaggerated point and guttural “eh” toward the (freshly cleaned!) kitchen sink so she could place her little tootsies in three inches of water and delightedly hurl small plastic balls at her feet so the recoil could splash her in the face, Hubby came to a realization.
“She’s so spoiled,” he said. “She runs us!”
Yes, I thought, she does. But she’s one year old. She doesn’t really know any better. At least that’s what I keep telling myself to make myself feel better and NOT like I’m raising a monster that is destined to be both a Bridezilla and the second coming of Paris Hilton.
“But she’s so cute,” is what I really said. And he couldn’t argue with me there. She is adorable. Especially when she sees a picture of her mother and loses her mind screaming “Mommy” and pointing at it. I love that. Or when she learns a new word like “swim” or “eye” or “raffff” (Giraffe) or “un-key” (monkey) or “owie” (scabs on her knees).
The light of my life, folks. The light of my life.