I never thought one of my serendipitous talents would be the ability to dress a child while she ran through the house.
Pulling her pretty, bright white shirt over her head, while she climbed on and off the kitchen stool retrieving dropped pink and purple crayons. (I know this because they are the only two freakin' colors the kid will use)
Buttoning buttons, six of them to be exact, while she chased the cat from room to room, determined to catch him and hug him endlessly as he hissed and broke free.
Slipping on cute little beaded socks, as she made her way to the garage to fetch her new black shoes, which are the equivalent to gold in her eyes. Or wait, in her eyes, probably more like the equivalent to a box of Swiss Cake Rolls.
Once her ensemble was complete, I stood back and admired her, for all of the three seconds she stood still zoning into the four children on Noggin who danced and wiggled to a familiar tune.
And I was proud.
Some might even call it cocky.
As I sat, silently honoring myself for completing such a stint, I realized just what in the heck I was so excited about.
Dressing my child.
Are you flippin' kidding me?
What has my pathetic life come to?
Someone ... kill me now.
