My beautiful daughter, Maxwell, is turning five tomorrow. And if I do say, she has blossomed quite nicely in her wee time on this planet. And that's saying a lot since she started life as a wrinkled bundle of distrust. Truly, I know of no other child who could cut her eyes like my daughter at one and a half. But now, she's a loving (and sometimes goofy) little girl who can't wait to share her most prized possessions with her besties. Even this month, as if in anticipation of leaving pre school and embarking upon a busy kindergarten life, she has equally become more open, leading with a confident smile with its adorable overbite, and also more obstinate, showing a strong will and an alarming ability to spin lies. "No, I didn't take your scissors without asking and cut the fur and nose off of Stuffed Lion."
Now, this willful independence, as annoying as it can be, isn't my number one concern. As a matter of fact, I'm proud she periodically bucks the system. However, she's developing another quality that sets my teeth on edge. There seems to be a strong possibility that my little girl is somewhat of a tart.
We were watching So You Think You Can Dance and in a fit of pique, because I was focusing on the spectacular dancers this season and not bestowing my full attentions on my beloved daughter, Maxie yelled at me to pause the program. Then with the insistence of Veruca Salt she pointed to the female dancer and demanded, "Papa, I want that costume for my birthday."
Was it the frou frou, pink and lavender, princess-y confection I've gotten used to? Quite the contrary. The costume in question was more...well...take a look for yourself...
My baby is growing up and I'm scared shitless.