We've been warned about the sugar. We love the sugar! I can totally handle the sugar.
Our "little" Marie is a Viking in diapers. She thunders around the house in her Nordic-like fur-trimmed Robeez and we stand back and fear and tremble. If I stuff her, sausage-like, into her 12-18 month attire, it stretches across her bulbous belly, looking like it will tear apart as she bellows with Hulk-ish rage (minues the whole turning green thing).
After I had swept up the dancefloor and finished the dishes, I let Marie play with the water in the sink as I wiped down the counters, and she contentedly dumped water from one cup into another for a few minutes. When I looked back at her, she had her head under the steam of water, gurgling merrily before she stood up and shuddered as it streamed down her face.
On Eve's birthday, I got a call from her teacher. Nervous that the cake pops I had sent for her birthday treat had contained a hidden surprise, my heart did a little flip as I answered the phone. If Marie is a Viking, Eve is a proper French Princess. She exhibits a tad of royal entitlement, but she also possesses enough savoir faire to have bourgeois manners to match. Naturally I was surprised when her teacher told me about Eve's "meltdown" at school.
Eve glared back at her and growled, "You're the problem!"