2 Going On 12

This morning my dear, precious, wonderful, adorable, loving and (most-of-the time) kind little girl said to me:

"Hey Abigail, hold this please."

And so I reached out and took the sippee cup she was handing me.  At least she was semi-polite, right?  

Gone are the days of needing "Mommy."  Welcome to the preteen years.  Next thing you know she'll be asking me to buy her clothes from Justice and drop her off at the movies, the bowling alley, or some other preteen-infested, hormone breeding ground.  And, of course I'll feel obligated to comply, because she needs to be happy, right?  And besides, "all the other kids will be doing it."  But for her safety, I'll make sure I accompany her everywhere, dressed in my Jams, circa 1984, bedazzeled tank top reading "Abigail: aka Emma's Mom,"  white SAS sneakers, freshly crimped hair and heavy amounts of dark blue eye shadow.  We're gonna bond so much.