a face only a daughter could love

My daughter's a book worm. I'm loving it. And even though her daddy teases me about all the summers I spent as an adolescent with my head in a book, I hope she grows up with a love of reading. For now she prefers sitting in our lap and flying through the pages as we struggle to get the words out fast enough. Once we've sprinted through the book together we start over. Same book. Same rate of speed.

One of her books is about a monster under the bed (who looks kind of like a frog, so we go with that.)

(He hides under the bed and comes out at night, so we're sticking with frog.)

(Because it's a lot better having a huge frog under your bed than a monster, right?)

The other night, as Dan was reading this very non-nightmare inducing book to her, she'd point at various things and her daddy would identify them for her.

Point..."frog."

Point..."dragon."

Point..."snowman."

Suddenly, Chica cried "Mommy!" as her tiny finger landed on an image in the book.

Apparently this pantless, wild haired, barely conscious little boy bears a striking resemblance to her mother. My self-esteem has never been better.

From here on out she's only allowed to read books about beautiful princesses with long flowing hair.