My daughter is not a princess. I may have mentioned this before, but in case you thought I was just being dramatic (because, okay, it's been known to happen) these photos should serve as further proof that for once, I'm not over-exaggerating.
She never tried to kiss the toad. She didn't imagine herself in a princess castle, imprisoned by an evil witch/stepmother/own mother/me just waiting for Prince Charming to come and rescue her.
She carried it around the yard and giggled. "Froggy toad!" she'd exclaim, full of glee and wonder and not even the least bit of grossed-out girlyness.
Or so I'm told.
I was at work.
I miss most of this stuff.
I tried to put her in a pink tutu on Saturday -- a futile attempt to revive the girly-girl within. She screamed. And howled. And tantrum-ed. Until I put her in her green army shorts.
I've officially learned my first lesson in letting your child be who they were born to be.
I'm sorry monsieur toad, you'll have to wait for NumberTwo for your chance at a magical transformation.