When she was first born, she looked like a grumpy old lady who had been woken very rudely, but was willing to forgive me, if I would just turn the light out and cuddle her back to sleep.
She used to climb into the chook house, to the complete dismay of its occupants, to share the brekkie scraps that had been thrown in there.
She got her first beesting in the week that she learned to walk. She stepped solidly on the bee, it stung her, and the next step she took (still taking that massive breath that preceeds ear-splitting toddler howls) she stood on another bee, and it stung her too.
She once ran into a shopping centre elevator 5 seconds ahead of me, and two seconds before the doors closed. It took 20 minutes to figure out which floor she’d gotten off.
The only way you could tell she’d found a slug in the strawberries she grazed on in the backyard, was by the shudder, and the cockeyed grimace she gave before she swallowed it.
She knew the difference between parsley and any other green thing in the backyard by the time she was three.
She has never needed very much sleep to function energetically, full-bore throughout the day.
She’s good at everything she does, which leaves us scratching our heads and wondering how on earth they swapped her in the hospital without us knowing.
She hates having to choose in the lolly aisle. If she was allowed to, she would take an hour. And one of everything.
She turns nine tomorrow.
She’s my baby, and I’ll cry if I want to.