She's my Princess Girl. I try to tell her that at least once a day.
"Are you my Princess Girl?" I ask her.
"Yes," she replies, that sweet smile spreading across her face.
I never want her to doubt for a minute how special she is.
I give her a bath tonight, washing the snow cone syrup from her face and hair. I comb the tangles from her chin-length strawberry blonde hair. Then the moment she's been waiting for all evening--I put her new, long pink nightgown over her head and let it fall almost to her ankles. The ruffles at the hem just make the gown. The more girlie, the better, in my book. The first thing she does in her new nightgown--the first thing most of us did as little girls in a new nightgown--is hold the sides of it out and start twirling. It makes me smile, because I can so clearly remember doing that myself when I was small. I'm certain at this moment that she knows she is a Princess.
After one last drink of milk, we brush her teeth, and then settle into the rocking chair for prayers and a few Bible stories. I finish reading, close the Bible, and as I set it aside, she says, "I want to rock." So we snuggle in a little tighter--my arms around her, her head on my chest. I pat her back, she pats my chest. We rock silently for a few minutes. Then breaking the silence, she looks up at me, puts her finger to my lips, and says, "I love you, Mommy."
"I love you, too," I reply.
It's moments like these that I don't think my Mommy heart can hold any more love. No words can do the moment justice.
I lay her in her bed and cover her up with her girlie pink ruffled quilt. I kiss her goodnight, turn on her music, and quietly close her door.
My cup runneth over.