Her Mother's Daughter

Call me Mother of the Year.

At this point, it's all I can do to keep from laughing. Nope, that's not working. I'm laughing so hard I can barely type.

Saturday was an adventure in shoe shopping. Peanut wore out the toes of his sneakers and we realized that Tula's toes were crammed into her shoes. I was, of course, heartbroken to spend some time in a shoe store. Boomer and I decided that the stroller would be worthless, so Tula was able to sprint at will. Or so we thought.

Peanut's experience was fairly simple. He's a guy. Sneakers. Done. And off to hang out with Boomer. On the other hand (foot?), Tula was enthralled with new shoes. I sat her on my lap to get the new shoes on, and it was the first time she sat still all week. We picked out shoes, and headed to the register- minus Tula. I turned around, and she's playing with high heels in Mommy's size.

That's my girl. I'm still proud.

We bribed Tula with her own new sparkly sandals, and she left the store without much fuss. I figured the story was over. I should know better.

Yesterday Tula started fussing at me. She's still nonverbal, so What Tula Wants is a frequent game here. The correct answer was Put On My Sparkly New Shoes So I Can Walk Around The House. Today she wasn't happy until I put her in a T-Shirt dress and her sparkly sandals.

My daughter is turning into a girly girl. I'm laughing. Boomer's in trouble.

I haven't quite had the courage to tell this tale to the grandmas. I wonder how long it will take them to laugh and indulge my daughter in her new passion- clothes and shoes. My guess is two hours. Tops.

Call me Mother of the Year.