Most who read this blog know that our daughter is a tomboy. The genuine article. Dyed-in-the-wool. Unadulterated. Though I did secretly hope for a tomboy, I did not press her to be one. The love of ball sports and daredevilry, along with the utter disregard for anything frou-frou, frilly or sparkly (she actually denies it fervently every time I tell her she's cute, and doesn't even dignify the word "pretty" with a response), was hardwired into her from the get-go. It is none of our doing. So it is pure comedy to watch her "shave" next to her daddy. She used to try to do it with his razors, until we were forced to buy her a plastic "shaving" kit with kid-friendly (Spiderman brand) shaving cream.
She climbs up on the toilet lid so as to be able to perform her ablutions flank by flank with her dear old dad.
The girl really is too much, don't you agree?
The one compliment that does not make her frown and shake her head is "You make mommy laugh!"
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