She wore ponytails today. She looks particularly cute when she has two pony tails. I've recently learned that just because there are two, it doesn't mean they are pigtails. I can't do that thing with the brush that Mommy does when she pulls the hair just right to create not only a part, but a unified mass of hair that looks neat. My ponytail is a jumble of hair; how can I expect to make Tahlia's hair anything but a jumble of hair. When I do her hair, it often looks like she did it herself as best as a two year old can. I never fixed anyone else's hair growing up -- probably one of the reasons Mommy married me.

She tells you if she only wants one or two ponytails. She also tells you if there is a flag, bus, cherry-picker, or balloon near by. These are all things with which she is fascinated. She currently faces forward in the car, and gleefully notifies us of any yellow vehicle that passes, informing us, sometimes incorrectly, that it is a school bus. It matters not to her that it could be a moving van; to her, if it is yellow and big, it is a bus. We also cannot pass a flag with out a gentle reminder. It has become not only an obsession for her, but for us as well. Often, if I am sitting near a window during a less than engaging meeting, I find myself peering out the window stifling the desire to let everyone know that there is a flag flapping outside. I know if she were there, she'd want to know.

Today, she visited my school for a baby shower. She likes to go where Daddy works with all of the people. She checked in, and I put a visitor sticker on her chest. Later, she crumpled it up so that it was stuck against itself and she became upset. She entered a room full of twenty odd English teachers. Odd because I'm not sure of the number, and odd because they are English teachers. Mommy was the center of attention with her big belly that is ready for the little one to come out any second. But Tahlia was mesmerized by the group. All of these women and a couple of men staring at her. We all wondered if this was one of those defining moments in a young mind. She ate strawberries, played with a balloon, then needed to go potty. I allowed her to run down the spacious hall where the slap of the foot on tile freely reverberates to the bathroom. After we returned from a successful trip, she mysteriously needed to use the restroom again. I asked if she just wanted to run down the hall -- she insured me that that wasn't it, but that she needed to use the potty. On the return trip from an uneventful hold over the potty, she said that she wanted to run. I asked if she ever needed to use the potty. She ran ahead.