Today, at Sam’s, a little girl (after conferring with her grandmother) walked up to my daughter here and asked, "Are you a Disney Princess?"

My daughter smiled hugely and said, "Yes."

The little girl beamed and shyly said, "Hi."

I love this chick I call mine.

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Why do toothaches always happen on the weekend? It’s like some cruel joke to ensure maximum suffering. Or maybe the searing pain in my mouth is making me cranky.

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My youngest daughter, rocking this look. (She rocks all the looks. And everyone likes her. Between the social misfittery of her sister and me, it’s one of those eye-roll moments. "Yes, yes. Everyone loves P. Can we move on?" I’m proud of who she is, but it’s reached cliche proportions.)

But, yes. Rocking the look. Clearly because her father contributed DNA. Or something. She didn’t get it from me.

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