Happy birthday Punk!

My daughter, my wee little evil midget, Punk, turns two today.
Seems like only a heartbeat ago that she was in my tummy and I was trying to end our time share arrangement.
She was the surprise baby, the unplanned but wanted child.
She was the last surprise I've really enjoyed in life.
Punk is her daddy's joy, my laughter, and our families only girl grandchild.
She is rotten, spoiled, temperamental, loud, rough, sweet, girly, and in other words, a perfect Punk.
It is amazing, after two boys, how different having a little girl is.
She is definitely feminine, until it's time to get down and dirty. Then she's worse than the boys.
Punk has been practicing her feminine wiles since she figured out if she cooed and giggled, the men in her life would give her what she wanted.
She has perfected it to an art now.
And when someone doesn't capitulate quickly enough, she channels her inner banshee and glass shatters.
Punk is my last baby, the culmination of a family and a dream my husband and I didn't know we had. She is the marichino cherry on our sundae, the Cool whip on our pie. She makes the five of us a whole unit.
She, like her brothers, makes The Man and I laugh so hard we occasionally wet ourselves. And then she curls up and snuggles (once we've changed out pee dampened pants, that is!)
She is Punk. She is Perfect. She is Princess Piss pot.
And we love her.
Whole bunches. (Imagine baby arms thrown as wide as they can reach.)
Happy birthday, Punkin girl.