This kid, and those eyelashes! I hate her sometimes, I really do*. And I know that envy is one of the Seven Deadly Sins (right? sloth, anger, greed, envy, cigarettes, vodka, fornication?) but I can't help myself -- her eyes are lovely, and her eyelashes are totally worth killing for. Except I'm too lazy, and anyway, who would I kill? Max Factor? He's already dead. Moving on.
Oh! And the perfect little ringlets! This kid is a brat** -- I am sending her off to live in a convent with some horrible penguin-frocked nuns who make her scrub the floors and sweep the chimneys and cook the pies and wash the laundry and feed the ducks. Wait, that isn't a convent, that's the castle where Cinderella lives. And I hate princesses, plus I'm already the wicked (step)mother. So never mind.
The only thing that makes living with this kid even barely tolerable*** to my fractured self-image is the fact that she is some sort of spawning ground for snotballs that are incredibly resistant to Photoshop. Although, somehow she makes them work, which is even more infuriating. Plus, I took her picture while she was all boogered up, so I guess that says more about my failings as a parent then it does about her. "Look at me, I'm the horrible mom with the runny-nosed gremlin!"
She's not completely perfect, of course, just practically perfect, like Mary Poppins****. But sometimes, when she's pretending to be a froggy in her bedroom after we get our jammies on, sometimes she gets the hiccups and then bonks into the dresser with her forehead. Fortunately there was no blood, just a teensy little scratch, but of course we needed a Band-Aid, and because I love her so much, I let her use one of my Magical Unicorn Bandages.
But I made her put it on herself.
* = Lies. Never happens.
** = Damn lies. She's awesome.
*** = Goddamn lies. It's a fairy tale, really.
**** = This part is true, actually. Practically perfect in every way.