Ahh, to be three again, and not giving a second thought about running around the house in all your glory.
The other night, while getting my youngest ready for bed, she takes off down the hallway in her birthday suit. She was laughing and singing and having a jolly ole time. She didn’t even care that she still has a little of that baby cellulite on her butt. Or that she still has that protruding, baby-esque belly that’s so sweet you want to cover it with zerberts. Talk about being comfortable in your own skin.
(That tends to change, especially after having three kids. Now I think can we lower the lights a little. Maybe just light a candle instead. A glass or two of wine doesn’t hurt either.)
After about 10 minutes of sheer, naked joy, I say to my daughter, “Come on Lady Godiva, let’s put on your pajamas.” To which my three year old replied, “I’m NOT Lady GaGa!!”