Baby vixen

It's no secret Punk has The Man wrapped securely around her little pinky.
He thinks he's stern and authoritative. She just laughs at him.
So do I, so it may be hereditary.
I watch them together. The Man has something she wants, he hands it over.
She does something she shouldn't, he says "No! No!" and she does it anyway.
When she does wrong, she offers up a smile and a kiss and all is forgiven.
And when he does wrong, she yells and cries at him, and he normally caves.
He's a marshmallow and she's in control.
I knew the minute we were told we were having a girl that The Man would succumb.
As much as he wanted our boys, by the time we got to baby three, he wanted a girl more than he wanted his next breath.
Don't get me wrong, is she had turned out to be a he, The Man would have loved our third son as passionately as the first two. But he would have silently longed for a girl--and eventually he would have tried to convince me to try one more time to satisfy his biological clock.
It's been a good exchange. He gave me three children, and I brought them into the world healthy and whole. He made me a mommy, and I made him a daddy.
He has his boys and his baby girl, and I just have my babies.
So while I laugh at him with his daughter, I know that he's just as enamoured with his sons, just for different reasons. Bug fascinates him with his quick wit and the fact that, out of all of our children, he bears the most resemblance to The Man. Boo is the child most like him in temperament and appetite. And Punk is his precious baby girl, capable of doing no wrong.
While I have more realistic views of our heathens, I understand where he's coming from. Bug made me a mommy. Boo made me a better mommy. And Punk let me have fun as a mommy.
So I guess if he dotes on our daughter and adores our boys, that's okay. Because, most days, I do too.