This is my daughter...

This is my daughter. She likes wagon rides. She likes the color purple. She likes Sesame Street and chocolate milk. She likes Justin Beiber...no, she loves Justin Beiber. She cries for Mom in the middle if the night, but sometimes she wants Dad instead. She likes to play on the beach. She's smart. Boy, is she smart. She eats a lot of rice, doused in furikake, lots of furikake. She jumps naked into my lap every night, fresh from the bath and trying to escape the Mummy Monster. She can't get enough Tinkerbell, nowhere near enough. She can be crunchy but mostly not, almost always the complete opposite. She tells you when she's frustrated. She likes to draw on the living room window. She watches Pingu and smiles so wide you'd think her face would break. She kisses me goodbye every morning and tells me to have a good day. She knows that if Daddy says he's got a present for her when he gets home it's usually a bag full of books. She can tell you the name of all her stuffed animals, and there are a lot of stuffed animals. She wears Chucks. She looks perfect in pigtails. She likes to hold both her parents hands and swing between them. She doesn't play with toys at the dinner table because Grandad says, "no toys at the table." She likes to be chased around the house. She gets stickers for using her poddy. She occasionally opens the fridge and looks around. She likes to wash dishes. She insists on visiting the cows down the road on a regular basis. She likes Play-Doh. She likes to tease Grandma, and she likes to explore Baachan's sewing room. She plays with bugs. She has a library card, and she has some fines to pay, I think. She remembers the name of every kid she ever meets. She likes beans and can tell you that Aunt Netta doesn't. She thinks Uncle Ian is flying every plane that drifts overhead, and will tell you that Meredis lives in Bee-cago. She likes to dance. She's given her cat a clinical anxiety disorder, and she's already been to the movies once and behaved admirably. She has a baseball shirt because that's all she wanted from Wrigley Field. She texts her cousin Avery, and she thinks Reece is a freak. Brent makes her shy. She makes Aunt Header's day, and turns Uncle B into a rather silly behaving 6'4" giant. She likes Smarties, and she likes watching sports with Daddy. She only wants Mummy to do it sometimes, and looks abso-frikkin-lutely adorable in gymnastics tights. She lifts me up when I'm sad, and she reminds me with just one look that she's the most important thing we've ever done.

That's my daughter, and nothing defines me better.