Don't Call Me Luca.

"Hey Mom."
Mom? She's calling me Mom now? "Yes, Luca?"
"Ummmmmm...don't call me Luca, ok?"
"Well, ok sweetie."
"Thank you."
"Sure. But I have a question."
"Yeah Mom." Seriously, though....she's calling me MOM already?!?!
"If I cannot call you Luca, what would you like me to call you?"
"Um. I think you should call me Luca Margaret Kahle." said with pride, distinction...a title rather than a name
"Oh, ok then. Luca Margaret Kahle it is."
"Thank you. Thank you Katie Kahle."

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She's becoming a big kid before my eyes. Oh, I know she's not even 3 yet. But she's got swagger. She hears music and she wants to dance, but she intuitively knows that the dance will be even better if she puts on her tutu first. She picks her own outfits most of the time, and cute ones at that. Gray tights with a multi-colored cordouroy dress and purple shirt. Jeans with embroidered flowers, a bright pink shirt, kelly green sweater, and purple boots. And pretties. We cannot forget the pretties: in her hair, on her arms, adorning her neck. I try to leave the house in my comfy flip flops, and she stands before me, green eyes bright with youth, unencumbered by years and fatigue and practicality, knee high black boots in hand. "Mama, I think you should wear your boots." We're going to IHOP. To Target. For groceries. I obey. I always obey. I sit to slide the boots up under the cuff of my jeans, pull the zipper high up my calf. She nods, dips her head to the side and knits her brows in approval. Then, patting my knee with those hands of hers, she smiles at me and says, "See mama? Those are nice boots mama. I like those boots."

And suddenly it doesn't matter how comfy those flip flops were, because I like those boots too.