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You Want a Piece of Me?

You Want a Piece of Me?

My diaper-clad daughter is standing on the treadmill in the corner of the living room.  She is refusing to get dressed this morning.  She knows the treadmill is off-limits, but there she stands, hands on naked hips, a look of pure defiance in her big brown eyes.  I turn and ask her in my serious mom voice, “Are you allowed on there?”  She looks straight at me, hands still glued to those little naked hips and retorts, “You want a piece of me?”  I burst out laughing!  Of all the things I could have expected to come out of her mouth, I didn’t see that one coming.  She is only two years old, but her older siblings have made her fresh beyond her years. “Who taught you that?” I ask, trying to regain my composure.  “Brother taught me that,” she says.  Of course he did.  I’ll have to talk to brother later.  I hold my arms out to collect her.  “Come here,” I say, “I want a piece of you!”  She leaps into my open arms and clasps her tiny hands together behind my neck.  “I’m ready to get dressed now,” she says.

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