I mean seriously.  Aside from her pin straight brown hair (which is just like her father’s) and biting sarcasm, we really have little in common.  At least not when it comes to being little girls.

Growing up, I only had an older brother.  So deflecting WWE body slams and figure-fours was a matter of survival.

I hiked up his hand-me-down blue striped tube socks, and along with my unisex bowl cut and only-Asian girl status,  kids at school were not nice.  Good thing I knew how to pin someone down for a 10 second count.

Anyhow, my daughter could not be more different.  She is well versed in every Disney Princess story, along with each one’s full dress attire. Her bedroom and closet resembles the inside of a bottle of Pepto Bismol.  And every time a Barbie commercial or ad crosses her eyes, she suddenly folds her hands behind her back, tilts her head and says, “Mommy, I just LOVE Barbie! Can I have one?”

HELL to the NO.  At least that’s my immediate response inside my head.  But the answer is indeed always “no.”

Personally, I do not like Barbie.  At her age, I used to swing her by her luscious blond hair and turn her into an enemy helicopter attacking GI Joes.

I put her on the same tier as Bratz dolls. Both wear way too much make up, and do not set a great example for little girls.  I’m not crazy about the Disney Princesses either, but I can only do so much consumer deflecting.

But Barbie takes the cake. Especially now that they’ve decided she needs a redesign because her ankles are too fat.

Barbie has cankles?  Really? Does anyone actually notice anything besides her gargantuan hair and rack?

If this is an issue, how come Dora’s head is bigger than her entire body?

Anyhow, my daughter will not be receiving a Barbie from Santa. She will however, be receiving a baby doll that she has been eying for several weeks now.

I read that offering an older sibling a baby doll can help ease the transition of having a new baby at home.

Isn’t she cute?  Sure she has blue eyes and blond hair and looks nothing like anyone in our family, but who cares.  I’ve grown used to the nanny question, and I have all of my “I’m not the help” comebacks ready to go.

I managed to score her for 50% off on Amazon after Thanksgiving.

Only there is one caveat…

“Pee or poop?”

Awesome.

My daughter will soon appreciate the joys of diaper surprise, or she will become a master diaper changer by the age of five.

Win-Win.

At least the word “vomit” or “explosive” wasn’t included on the packaging.  That must be the more expensive line.

Dadisodes is going to love that our diaper bill just doubled.

Perhaps the plastic, bastard child will have to suffer from bouts of starvation from time to time.

At least it won’t grow up to have cankles.

“Mommy, can we go into the ocean now?”

I slowly stand and untie the sarong from my hips and gently toss my hair to shake out the sand.  This sends the little feet beside me dancing, anticipating the splashes to come.

The shock from the chilly sea jolts me back to reality.

I am actually in my living room, sitting in an armchair.  I must have dozed off momentarily while my daughter sleeps on the sofa.

My body sits still as my head continues to swirl.

It wasn’t really a dream.  It happened.

Six months ago in a warmer place, during a more carefree time.

When the only temperature that mattered was the atmosphere outside, and thermometers were rarely placed under a tongue.

Where living is done outdoors, and no age limit applies to getting drunk on the sun.

A time when sunshine fueled the energy of my child.

We are coming up to day 7 of sickness in our house.  My daughter’s fever continues to linger and is taking its sweet time to taper down.    This is the longest she has ever been ill, and I’m sure her hacking cough will persist for weeks.  I am keeping a close eye for any pneumonia-like symptoms.

Her pediatrician says she most likely has H1N1 (her official diagnosis today after dodging our calls all week).

We have been cooped up inside since last week Friday.  In that time, the temperature outside has dipped down and a new batch of leaves blanket our yard.

When we look out the window, the tree in our backyard is just about barren now.

Every leaf fallen, leaving an arbor ghost.

Each one gone, except one.

While it offers vast opportunities for a child to learn the fundamentals of socialization and classroom etiquette, it may also begin to strip away traces of childhood innocence.

For the first time, Babisodes (who is no longer a baby) is attending preschool four days a week.  Since there is real a possibility she will be attending Kindergarten next fall, this is an attempt to build her social skills with several half days of preschool per week.  We hope that this will help to provide a smooth transition, rather than throwing her straight into Kindergarten 5 days a week cold turkey.

In just a few short weeks, she has already made great strides.  Despite the fact that she is the youngest in her class by at least several months, her teachers have assured me that she is keeping up with her peers and making strong social connections.

Sounds like pride swelling news for any parent, right?

Now before I begin to sound like a curmudgeon mom, allow me to start off by saying I am very proud of my daughter.  I relish in her sudden stockpile of knock-knock jokes.  I grinned ear-to-ear when she was able to greet every classmate by name in the second week of school. And her sharpening skills for letters and numbers amaze me each day as she brings home heaping stacks of crafts and projects (how do parents fit all this crap on their refrigerators?).

However, while her intellectual, fine motor, and social skills refine, the preschool environment has nurtured  personality traits we have never seen before.

Traits I am unsure if I was prepared for just yet.

Babisodes leaves class every day holding hands with a male classmate.  She only talks about her boy friends (notice they’re 2 separate words).  And she provides a daily report of which boys attended class and which did not.

Despite our efforts to nudge her in the direction of her female peers, she seems completely apathetic.

She has also developed a new skill for bullying.

…and talking back.

Oh, and let’s not forget the classic eye-roll and exasperated sigh.

Especially when mom wants to snap a photo of her in costume before the preschool Halloween party.

(The look of 4-year old disdain)

After 4,367 attempts to get her to smile, this was the best I got.

Please don’t tell me this is “just a phase” that will last 20 years.

I was tempted to Photoshop in heavy dark eyeliner, long wispy bangs and black nail polish.  However, I don’t think I could handle the image of an emo 4-year old.

I suppose I should be thankful though.  She did excitedly request to wear the same Minnie Mouse costume she wore last Halloween all over again.  Saved me a few bucks.

I just hope it’s not because all the boys missed how cute she was in it last year.

In fact, timing is one of those things I have always been out of sync with.

All of my life, I grappled with it. Such as when to tell a guy I am no longer interested in him. The time never seemed right. So I often took a different approach, like prodding the poor bastard until I drove him nuts enough to want to break up with me.

And damn those “I love you’s.” I can’t count the number of times I’ve shared that awkward, unreturned I Love You moment with someone.   My unsightly track record must have dashed all of my confidence in executing any form of verbal affection.

Because poor Dadisodes. I think I delivered my first I Love You to him via text message. Back when text messages cost $5 bucks a character to send, and double that to receive.  

Would have been cheaper to have Hallmark tell him with dancing hearts in an e-card. 

Anyhow, throughout the years, my affinity for poor timing has never been resolved. After thirty-something years I am still clueless.

Every time Dadisodes screws up,  I bank the moment for leverage against him later.  But I never seem to be able to cash them in at the right time.  Usually not until later. Much later. Like way after their Sell By date when they are no longer effective.

So with this pregnancy I’ve been especially cautious with timing, particularly about when to break the news to Babisodes.

It is a delicate situation after all.   

We knew we wanted to keep it under wraps as long as possible since she can barely make it 1 day without asking when her next birthday is. Seriously, the constant questions and the nagging can drive you nuts. Because once the cat is out of the bag, I know my sanity will wear thin under the assault of unbridled toddler anticipation.  So I guess I just hoped to cut down on some of the madness during the 9 months.  Plus, we wanted to make sure we made it through the hairy waters of the first trimester before we got her hopes up for a sibling.

However, I’m now at 14 weeks. We are definitely into the second trimester.

But I’m still hesitant to share the news with my 4-year old. Call me crazy, but I feel as if once I make it past my big ultrasound at 18 weeks, I will have more answers for her. Because right now, all I have is a black and white image of a lima bean inside my uterus to show her. That’s it.  Plus I have no plans to explain what a uterus is. 

But my daughter is a pretty smart cookie. She can spot anything out of the ordinary a mile away. She’s even pointed out the slight differences in the décor between two Chuck-E-Cheese locations.

So as my belly quickly grows (seriously, if I chew gum, I turn into the blueberry chick in Willy Wonka), I think I’m running out of time.

Because she is totally onto me.

Alright, so she can almost point out anything out of the ordinary.  Because that rack she has going on…

SO not an equal comparison.