There is a point to all of this

After the sweet scene that played out in our bathroom in-home beauty parlor this morning, we hit a sour note. And by that I mean I told you that the faux tribal makeup was going to scare the babies at the gym daycare and that you had to take it off.

Or I would.

No, staying home by yourself while the rest of us watch HGTV run our guts out on the treadmills is not an option.

Okay, so I see your choice is for me to take off the makeup.

I always know that choice is never going to end well.

Oh look, Baby Girl is in a whole different outfit. Surely this must be a different day altogether.

Or! This is the same day when you insisted that the only way you were going to the playground was as Butterfly Girl. You are clearly railing against the minimalist dress code of Montessori that you know you are marching into in a day or two. So I indulge.

You were wholly satisfied with the pink mesh ribbon I festooned into "wings," attached to your sundress with a scrunchie and a Mary Kay Cosmetics pin. Everyone came out a winner. Until later when you wanted me to reattach them to your pajamas. Something about sharp pins and sleep and ribbon was not adding up in my mind as GOOD IDEA.

I was on bed detail tonight and I felt like Ms. Pacman working my way through all of these paths, snapping up my pellet points to bedtime victory, and you and your brother kept floating out from every warp tunnel like the Ghosts of Namco. The!

As I was rocking your unwieldy overtired brother, you told me something that was important enough for me to write it down, which believe it or not is the point of this whole post. You said, "Mama? We love Daddy to the moon and past Heaven and into a field of flowers. But we love you to the moon and to the Milky Way and to Jupiter and past Mars and all the way to North Carolina. Yeah."

Know what, Baby Girl? I love you more.