She’s two, that littlest girl of mine.

Two, an age with a name all it’s own, and it’s not a good one.

It should have been no surprise to me.

It should have been no surprise when as I was tucking each girl in last night, giving and receiving hugs and kisses, that when it was her turn she held out her hand.

She held out her hand at arms length, palm down, fingers aimed toward the floor.

She held out her hand to be kissed as though she were the tyrant queen of the household.

Two, an age where you can be the tyrant queen and your subjects still will adoringly kiss your hand before bed.

Yes, she’s two, that littlest girl of mine.