Mommy and her little leach

I love my daughter.
Most of the time.
But since we put a kabash on sucking the thumb, she's found a new obsession to cling to.
Me.
She wont' sleep unless she snuggles me until she finally gives in.
Put her in bed without me, and you hear what I'm listening to right now.
"I'm not sleepy!"
"I want you!"
"Ima mad atch you!"
Followed by blood curdling shrieks.
Since she had an ear infection last week, I was weak.
I succumbed. I snuggled her and kissed her and rubbed her back until she fell asleep.
Now I'm slapping myself for being such a dumb shmuck.
I didn't do this with my boys. No, they like my husband, got my foot up their little butts to get them out of my bed.
I gave no quarter. If the menfolk wanted a snuggle, they could do it someplace else and let me sleep.
But, with Punk, it's different.
Not right. Definitely not sane. But different.
And I'm reaping my rewards. Through earplugs. And a radio blaring. In the car as I drive away from my screaming toddler.
Is it because she's my last? Because she smells sweet and still like a baby while her brothers smell like dirt, and gas, and boy?
Is it because her laugh reminds me of my daddy, or because she is a mini me before I lost the innocence of childhood?
Is it because I see the way The Man and our boys dote on her, like a princess, and I enjoy watching my guys make fools of themselves at her chubby, piggy toes?
I've always believed my first baby, the baby I lost, was a girl. My heart will brook no argument. And a part of me feels like Punk is my chance to love that baby like I love my others. Like maybe I wasn't ready then, and, when I was given Punk, it was the heavens opening up to tell me it was finally my time.
Or, in the universe of the real and sane, it was the heavens opening up to snicker at me and whisper that I was getting paybacks for all I put my own mama through.
So I let my baby get away with more than I should, more than my boys, more than I thought I would. all the while O know that I'm going to have a battle of epic proportions on my hands in, oh, about five seconds when she realizes I am trying to stand firm and not go in for a quick snuggle.
Just until she falls asleep.
As I peer around the doorway and watch her talking to her doll and waiting for me.
Because she knows.
She knows I'm there.
She knows I'm weak.
She knows I'll be scooting her over right . . . .about . . . now.
Hell, I held out longer than I did last night!
Vive la resistance!