My daughter, the old lady.

In the last three days, the following words have come out of my five year-old daughter’s mouth:

“Mom, just remember: the doctor knows best.”

“Dad, you know I don’t like wet feet in the house!”

“It’s a shame that my bed isn’t made. Let’s get that done.”

She’s also asked to see a knee specialist and told me that I’m driving too fast.

She still eats applesauce from a squeeze bottle and puts her underwear on backwards from time to time (actually, I do this, too), but she’s apparently rapidly transforming into a small, nagging, persnickety adult.