When I was little, I was pretty convinced that someone sat outside my window, watching my whole life, and then used their findings to write the story of Cinderella.
I had quite the imagination.
And what I thought was an extensive list of chores.
Now, maybe I didn’t have an evil step-mother, or crotchety sisters who tried to keep me away from my prince charming, but I did have pet hamsters.
They’re just like mice, give me a break.
And, ok, maybe I didn’t have a fairy godmother who could *poof!* glass slippers out of the air, but I totally had Cinderella beat on her midnight curfew. Mine was 11.
Yea, I guess I really have no idea why I thought that the story of Cinderella was my biography…?
But today, while eating lunch, my 3 year old looked at me and stated all matter-of-factly “Mom, Cinderella has boobs like you.”
Looks like I can put this one in the win column after all.