From Flor Larios' Etsy Site
Spark plug. Feisty Little Thing. Chatterbox. All of these cliches so aptly describe my little girl. She's Lucy and there's no overlooking her. She's the tiniest little thing you ever saw, but the magnitude of her personality more than makes up for all that. She has the funniest, riciculously advanced vocabulary and she thinks that disco needs to be revived. She can talk in a rumbly Fat Albert voice and when you watch her doing so, you can't help but yelp out with helpless laughter. She loves to dance, but not in the ballerina/princess sort of way that so many of her little peers master. Her version is all fairy jive.
I think I've mentioned that everything about her is brown. Her eyes, her hair, her skin and even, more often than not, her clothes. Her skin reminds me of a butterfly's wings. Sometimes you wonder if maybe you shouldn't touch it, it's powdery softness seems so delicate. Warmth emanates from her little brown body and from her great, effervescent personality. My Mother-in-law delighted in using the word scintillating before she died, and I've never known anyone more worthy of being called so than Lucy.
When she tells you a story, her round facial features screw themselves up with tremendous animation. You sometimes find yourself so caught up in the watching of her to actually hear what she's saying. Her lips are a rosebud. Her round eyes are fringed in a thick black sweep. She is generally utterly joyful or dramatically downcast. There's little middle-ground with this One. She's endlessly forgiving. She'll follow me around anywhere. My lady smells and colors are a magnet for her. One of her favorite places to spend time is in the secret, cave-like confines of my closet. Here she can be a woods-fairy and try on all my high heeled shoes at the same time.
Sometimes she talks so much, you feel tired at the end of the day. You berate yourself a bit, asking What's your problem? Why are you so wiped? There's nothing tangible to point at to explain away the fatigue. She's not naughty. She rarely disobeys. She's kind and she's fun. But she just. doesn't. stop. She finds it hard to wrap her little brain around why her parents aren't willing to devote their entire lives to her care alone. She struggles with not interrupting. Especially right after school on our walk home, where she and her siblings all clamor to tell about their respective school days. If she's being honest, she would say that she thinks her news is just a bit more important than everyone else's. But o my word is she cute. The sweet little love notes this child brings home from the also-so-sweet grade three boys are numerous and touching. They're often of the "check this box if you love me, too" genre.
She's one of the more interesting human beings I've yet encountered. Her animation adds jazz to any room. Where she is, there is laughter. There are shenanigans. And first and foremost there is energetic joy. I'll be so lonely when my wood-Sprite leaves me. But the world will be far better for her arrival there.
I think I've mentioned that everything about her is brown. Her eyes, her hair, her skin and even, more often than not, her clothes. Her skin reminds me of a butterfly's wings. Sometimes you wonder if maybe you shouldn't touch it, it's powdery softness seems so delicate. Warmth emanates from her little brown body and from her great, effervescent personality. My Mother-in-law delighted in using the word scintillating before she died, and I've never known anyone more worthy of being called so than Lucy.
When she tells you a story, her round facial features screw themselves up with tremendous animation. You sometimes find yourself so caught up in the watching of her to actually hear what she's saying. Her lips are a rosebud. Her round eyes are fringed in a thick black sweep. She is generally utterly joyful or dramatically downcast. There's little middle-ground with this One. She's endlessly forgiving. She'll follow me around anywhere. My lady smells and colors are a magnet for her. One of her favorite places to spend time is in the secret, cave-like confines of my closet. Here she can be a woods-fairy and try on all my high heeled shoes at the same time.
Sometimes she talks so much, you feel tired at the end of the day. You berate yourself a bit, asking What's your problem? Why are you so wiped? There's nothing tangible to point at to explain away the fatigue. She's not naughty. She rarely disobeys. She's kind and she's fun. But she just. doesn't. stop. She finds it hard to wrap her little brain around why her parents aren't willing to devote their entire lives to her care alone. She struggles with not interrupting. Especially right after school on our walk home, where she and her siblings all clamor to tell about their respective school days. If she's being honest, she would say that she thinks her news is just a bit more important than everyone else's. But o my word is she cute. The sweet little love notes this child brings home from the also-so-sweet grade three boys are numerous and touching. They're often of the "check this box if you love me, too" genre.
She's one of the more interesting human beings I've yet encountered. Her animation adds jazz to any room. Where she is, there is laughter. There are shenanigans. And first and foremost there is energetic joy. I'll be so lonely when my wood-Sprite leaves me. But the world will be far better for her arrival there.
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