Mother's Day

Gigi wants to be a mommy when she grows up. Or a teacher. But mostly, she wants to be a mommy.  My shoes are scattered throughout the house--even the really nice ones. Especially the really nice ones.

"G," I ask, "How do you even get those? They're on the top shelf!" 

"A stool," she flips her hair over her shoulder and grins. 

She steals my necklaces and my perfume. I have to hide the red lipstick. 

And the blue eye shadow.

Although, sometimes on special occasions, we both like a festive fuchsia lip:

I wanted to be a mommy when I grew up. I wanted a chubby cheeked baby who giggled when I walked in the room.

It's not often that you get to say that you got exactly what you wanted. But, I did.