Then, during only bashful of thirty-six years of age, we have a baby girl. She is a warn in so many, many, ways. First, she turns one, afterwards two, 3 and 4 and finally, she is five. She is your mini-me. In birth month. In birth order. In dry wit. In a freckles that tide opposite her face. And, she is so intelligent and so dominant and so confident. She is a comprehensive light of her family. “The topping on a cake,” your father declares.
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