She's been asking me more and more to tell her funny stories about when she was "little." I suppose when my daughter figured out she was once younger than she is at this very moment, she decided she'd grown up.
So I tell her stories. Stories about her as a baby. Stories about how well she ate. How well she slept. How early she spoke. And all the things she'd say.
Like when she was two --and had been watching Charlotte's Web on loop -- and touted, "No, I will not eat them [carrots]. It's unfair and unjust." At two.
Or when she was five, and I remarked to her that she had my knees. "You know what?" she pondered, "I think Daddy has my nipples."
But now, at the age of eight. I have only one observation. It's impossible. She can't be. And yet, there she is, a little lady before my very eyes.
Still little. Thank god.