Fame Is Rot; Daughters Are the Thing

*mad applause to you if you know where the title comes from, and who said it (and no googling!)

Her nickname is Kitkat, but I call her my mini-me, because she's the one who resembles me the most physically.

When it comes to temperament and attitude though, the resemblance between me and her older sister is more evident. Shy to a fault, preferring to listen than to talk, content to sit unobtrusively somewhere and watch and absorb everyday sightings.

Not so the mini-me. She probably should've been christened Action.

She makes her opinions known, either through speech or body language, or both. And her body language is so very dynamic! Any moment she sits still somewhere, I worry that she's sick. That girl is one heck of a dynamo -- even when she's feeling a bit under the weather. I remember one time when she was running a fever, and her pediatrician asked me if she was getting up and walking. I replied that I hardly ever see mini-me "walk." Most of the time, she runs, or skips, or hops, or sings at the top of her voice, or wiggles her generous behind, or waves her arms. Quite often, it's a combination of several of those things.

She is pediatric poetry on steroids.

She's also the kind of person who can make you shake your head in exasperation or cause your brow to wrinkle in consternation -- and at the same time have your heart feel like it's about to burst out of your chest and shower the world with goodwill-plasma out of sheer love.

She's so very affectionate too. I can't count the number of times I've awakened to her sweeet butterfly kisses on my cheeks, eyelids, forehead, and lips. Her personal well of hugs is seemingly bottomless, just like her wells of laughter and love.

Happy 8th birthday, my baby girl. May your sparkling, buoyant wells never run dry. I love you.