She loves being tickled. Until she hates it, ten seconds later.
She smells like bubblegum and fresh apple.
Super models would envy her eyelashes, and her milk-and-honey skin.
Her favorite Littlest Pet Shop figurines are named Sleepy Carl and Backwards Bob. (Don't ask me. I have no idea.)
She would eat her weight in Asiago cheese if I let her.
She calls the boyfriend, C, at work regularly, demanding to know when she'll see him again, and calls him, hilariously, "Char-Char." (As you can imagine, he looooves this.)
She has an irrational fear of birds.
Her favorite music of the moment: Sleater Kinney, The Magnetic Fields, the soundtrack to Tim Burton's Alice In Wonderland.
(This Halloween she plans to dress as Alice, and has asked me to dress as The Red Queen. We're negotiating.)
She's fascinated by video production and stop-motion animation.
She wants to be an artist. I tell her she already is one.
Almost every day she still says to me, seemingly out of the blue, "I miss Zelda." And my heart breaks a little.
She hates ice cream, except the cotton candy flavored variety.
She asks me for hugs several times each day, usually at the precise moment I'm most busy or overwhelmed.
Her cheeks are so perfectly sprayed with freckles it looks as though they might've been applied dot-by-dot with a marker.
She goes into the second grade on Monday, at her new school. She's excited — I'm the one who's nervous.
She's seven, very nearly eight now. Christ, how did she get so big so fast?
She's still my baby, however old she gets.
She is, and will always be, my one perfect thing.
