There's a Purple Pie Man in my Underwear Drawer

Keira is, without a doubt, her mother's daughter. Besides the fact that everyone claims she looks just like me--I don't see it, but I'll take their word for it--I've started noticing lately how many little me-isms have found their way into our Binks.

Anyone who knew me as a child would tell you I was the pickiest picky eater who ever picked...at everything. My mom, being opposed to the "Clean your plate or go hungry" policy some parents stand by firmly, was kind enough to make me a bowl of Chef Boyardee in place of almost everything she cooked, because it was practically the only thing I would eat. (She did, however, have to put a cap on the Spaghetti-O consumption when my skin literally started to turn orange...no joke.) I hated all vegetables except peas, all fruits except apples and grapes, and all condiments except ketchup. I gagged on peanut butter and jelly. I performed CSI-level examinations of everything that crossed my plate, and could spot even trace amounts of onions, peppers, mushrooms, or tomatoes from a mile away. My family might as well have made t-shirts that said, "Try it--you'll like it!" and "You don't know what you're missing!" for all the times they tried to persuade me with those futile phrases. To this day, when Bittle's parents order pizza, her dad will inevitably wax nostalgic and announce that "Crissy only likes pepperoni!" because God help them if they ordered pizza with any offending vegetables on it when I was around.

And now, because the universe is nothing if not humorously ironic, I have produced a daughter exactly like myself...causing me, in turn, to become the "Try it, you'll like it!" person I glowered at as a child. I really should've seen it coming, way back when we found that she was the only toddler in America who didn't like Cheerios. Seriously? Nowadays, she will only eat plain vanilla yogurt, and only if it has sprinkles on top. She will not eat cereal, eggs, or fruit bars. For the longest time, she boycotted all forms of bread and cheese (the sheer pickiness of which makes her like me, despite my suspicions at the time that she must've been switched at birth, because no child of my loins could possibly turn down a carb!) She does eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but only following a lengthy orientation, propaganda, and gradual immersion campaign by Bear. Basically, if she had it her way, she'd be living entirely on fruit snacks, fruit roll-ups, and--what else?--pepperoni. Oh, and the girl can put away ice cream like she's got an entirely separate stomach for that purpose. Could she BE more like me?

That's not where her mini-me tendencies end, either. Walk into the house (ours, or really, anybody's) with her and within 10 seconds flat, her shoes are off and she's asking to change into jammies. This is a ritual I fully endorse and can't blame her for, although it means we have to change her into and out of "real clothes" every time she wants to play outside or go anywhere again. There is simply nothing more relaxing, nothing that says "I'm home...let the coziness commence!" better, than tossing the day's outfit aside in favor of drawstring waists and soft cotton. Am I wrong?

She loves books and "American Idol." She's hopelessly devoted to her Blankie. She's attached to her family and shy around strangers. She giggles so hard that she gives herself hiccups, and then giggles at her own giggling, for no apparent reason. She makes up songs about e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. In all of these ways, she's exactly like I was as a kid and/or am today. And she's terrified of the Purple Pie Man from my old Strawberry Shortcake set, so every time she comes across him, she hides him somewhere new and out of sight...which is why, when I went to get dressed this morning, I found him staring up at me from inside my underwear drawer.

Yep. That's my girl!