I introduced Alice to a friend a couple of months ago, and she said, as people often say to very small things in pink, “What a pretty girl you are!”
Then she stopped herself.
“Wait, I’m not supposed to say that… What a smart girl you are!”
I thought that was kind of cool.
More recently, another friend, a mom, told us to make sure Alice wears her bow to day care. You want to have the cutest kid there, she said. The cutest kids get the most attention.
She was teasing, of course. I mean, I’m pretty sure, anyway.
Alice is at a great place. All the kids are very cute. All the kids get lots of love.
And yet, a tiny little whisper of a thought in the back of my mind nags me, “C’mon. Cute that baby up.” I’m terrible.
The other day when I picked her up, the ladies had just finished some craft that involved painting Alice’s feet purple, stamping them on a piece of paper and arranging the prints so they looked like a butterfly. It’s very reassuring.