My pretty, pretty princess

My baby is two.

Two.

Can't be, but it is all the same.

She's very petite, so it's easy to forget how old she is. The child still fits in clothing made for children half her age.

She reminds us of her age through action, though. Climb to the top of Mount Couch. She talks in complete sentences, and started speaking that way that much earlier than my other two ever did.

You wouldn't think someone so short and semi-verbal could scare a four-year-old boy, one big for his age and mouthy, but she can.

* * *

Two years ago, we nearly lost her before we had her. Her umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck three times, and she came so quickly, no one realized until she was nearly born.

I was told not to push, and had to stop for a full five minutes. Those of you who have had kids know that's almost impossible.

Those of you who haven't: Remember that trick where you drop a lit match in a narrow bottle, then set a hard-boiled egg on top of the bottle opening? Eventually the vacuum pressure is so strong, the egg is sucked through. Just at the moment the egg is to pull through . . . stop it. Hold it there. For five minutes.

Right. Impossible.

Somehow I did, and they unwrapped the cord, and she smiled at me. (I swear, we have photographic evidence.)

* * *

My youngest is the most cheerful child I've ever met. She's sweet, she's empathtic and loving. She has a temper, but generally, it never shows.

Unlike my first girl, when I banned pink in all shades, hues, and forms, this time, I'm embracing it. My youngest is likely to greet you with a tiara, a pink tutu, and a sword and a Thomas train in her hands.

She loves all things pretty pretty princess. She also loves getting dirty and playing with her brother outside, following in his daredevil footsteps every chance she can get.

It took me almost 10 years to learn those things aren't mutually exclusive. You can be a pretty pretty princess, and still love Legos and dump trucks.

We had a pretty pretty princess party over the weekend. Pink castle cake, pink tiara, pink straws, lots of pink. My little one is now the proud owner of a Bear Co. bear she picked out and stuffed herself, complete with pretty pretty princess tutu. Pink, of course.

She has two new dolls, and a pink stroller that she pushes them around in. She's willing to share the dolls and the bear with her siblings. But woe to the person who touches her stroller. She attacks her brother, assaults his ears with a high-pitched screech if he touches it, then comes over to shove him away from her baby's stroller.

My pretty, pretty princess isn't going to wait for a knight to come rescue her. She's willing to fight for herself, and her stuff.

Isn't that the way all our pretty, pretty princesses should be?