Double Digiting - Cheaper Than Therapy Cheaper Than Therapy

This was me.

Ten years ago, tomorrow. Ten days overdue. Fatigue and cranky level = super high.

And then I watched Raging Bull and began counting time between contractions and then pausing the movie to breathe through them. And then a mostly teeny, tiny Caillou-bald third baby, a second daughter, came into this world—looking exactly like my mother—to complete our family.

My Isabella Rose marched to her own drummer from day one, from that August 15th day in 2005. Stubborn, sweet, silly, salty.

My Boots, my Roo, my Ruby, my Bellezilla. My Bellaroo, my Bellabear, my Belrose. My Rooney, my Bella Bella.

My girl who likes to wear tutus and Beatles t-shirts and camp t-shirts and clothing that is always inappropriate for the weather.

My girl who likes LEGO and puzzles and minecraft and Clue and trampoline jumping and Full House and Ace Ventura and Airplane and Teen Beach Movie and Zookeeper and We Bought a Zoo and pretty much any movie about zoos.

My girl who loves The Book of Mormon soundtrack (the clean songs only) (clean-ish) and Birdy and Irish music because “it’s so full of metaphor, Mama.”

My girl who is an artist—through and through—surprising me daily with pictures and clay creations and paintings and crafts. And paint stains all over my basement and, um, homemade snow globes in her bed.

My girl who loves birds but can’t keep fish alive.

My girl who likes to skate and swim and work in the garden and bake and design cakes like Buddy Valastro and bike and dance and sing and make up her own words to songs and who likes to sing the same verse to her favorite Taylor Swift songs over and over and over.

And design her own clothing.