My middle child (let's call her Sadie, shall we?) is a hoot. Yeah I know everyone thinks their kids are high-larious, and some of them may even be right.
But I'm not talking about OTHER people's kids, I'm talking about mine. Sadie's older (by 2 years) brother is very athletic, and sports equipment of every type is pretty consistently scattered all over the place. Sadie never went through a heavy Barbie phase but does like to do things like play dress-up.
[ Side note. Sadie was born very soon after my maternal grandmother passed away. Now I'm no Miss Cleo but I have always felt there was something to that connection. My grandmother was a skeptic in the very best way. Sizing up folks with a slight frown, basically assuming they were dolts and daring them to prove her wrong. Sadie shares this healthy skepticism, as well as my grandmaw's general "Oh yeah? And what of it?" attitude. ]
So cut to a scene from a few weeks ago. Sadie and her brother are both playing downstairs, relatively peacefully (read: no trips to the ER). All of a sudden we hear footsteps on the stairs, and there's Sadie in a (soon-to-be-favorite) get-up.
Frilly pink tutu. New York Giants football helmet. Giant plastic Ninja sword.
We were speechless at first. But I soon stammered out some sort of brilliance along the lines of "wow, that's quite an outfit sweetie."
Her response? She stares at me. Narrows her eyes a little bit. Turns on her heels and walks out of the room.
Rock on, Sadie. Rock on.
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