My Preschooler is 13

I was gone last week for exactly 4 days. A delicious respite in the very exotic Southern regions of the Midwest.  Kansas may not seem exotic to you...but I was child-free, so I may as well have been in Southern France. 

Upon my return, I noticed that my sweet and beautiful preschooler (read: Wild Tazmanian) had skipped the next 9 years of her life and was now a moody, irrational, dramatic teenager. Some of you may wonder if there is a difference between a 4 year old and a 13 year old by that definition. It's a fine line. But I could tell by the comments she has made to me since my return.

Her: "Mom, do you like hip hop? I do."  (bobbing her head to a country song)

Me: "Rylee, your teacher told me you did a really good job at school today."
Her: "Awkwaaaaard!" (giggles and scurries off)

Me: "Rylee, if you're mad, you need to tell me why instead of just spitting and walking off"
Her: "BOOoooring."  (pouts and turns her nose in the air, rolling her eyes)


Her: (looking in the bathroom mirror) "Momma, you were right. I AM beautiful" (tosses hair)


And she's rubbing off on the wee-est one.

Maggie: "You're a good momma." (Patting my shoulder)
Me: "Oh thank you. You're a good Maggie."
Maggie: "You're so lucky." (rubbing my arm looking at me with doe eyes)