She picks out earrings each day but asks me to put them in.
She builds blanket forts with her brother.
She usually puts together a cute a matchy-matchy outfit. But she sometimes wears 9 barrettes in her hair all at once.
She eats most of the food served to her, including salad.
She still pronounces "hotel" as "hoo-tel."
She reads Ramona books and thinks of them as Ramona books and not "Beverly Cleary" books.
She is always asking if she can do jobs around the house for me, and asking first if she'll get paid for it.
She plays with her brother "for ten minutes" after bed-time reading and before lights-out. He is the one who asks for this play-time each night. She is the one who goes along with it gladly.
She hunts for Easter eggs furiously. Sprinting to the bright pink there, the neon yellow here. Wearing a dress fringed in eyelet and Patton-leather shoes, and lacy socks she is made to save for just such an occasion.
She asks to be excused from the Easter supper where the conversation has turned--thanks to a personality at the table who mistakes himself for a radio talk show host--to politics.
When asked what she is doing outside that fine Easter afternoon, she responds, "Only avoiding the most boring conversation in the whole world. . ."
What she knows about the whole world feels like enough to her, at age 8.
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