I love children. I don’t want any, but I love those little pint-sized rapscallions. The energy, the enthusiasm, the boundless imagination…the stickiness, the spills, the whining. I am an honorary “aunt” to two adorable girls who are polar opposites of each other: Peyton, who’s a tomboy, and Poppy, a true princess.
I never worry about Peyton; she’s smart, sassy, and would kick someone in the nuts if they pissed her off enough. Poppy is a little lady with manners that would make the Queen proud. She loves shopping, makeup, dressing up and going to tea. She terrifies me at times.
Which leads me to the conclusion that, if I should ever procreate, I want a boy. Boys are easier than girls. They don’t care about getting dirty; they don’t get their periods and all that comes along with that; they are less likely to tell you they hate you, and they offer you the chance to raise them into fine young manly men with good manners who can still kick someone’s ass.
Girls. I was one, so enough said.
