So, I hesitate to mention this, but I was a loyal fan of the TV show Blossom during the early 90s. I had vowed to keep that a secret until the day I died, but I recently slipped Blossom’s name into a conversation among friends and was surprised to learn that many women my age (okay, much younger than me) now admit to watching, and enjoying, the teenage angst of perky, insightful Blossom Russo. And if you are not one of those people, well, consider the fact that I have openly admitted on here more than once that I was a HUGE nerd.
Anyway, whether or not you admit you watched the show, you may recall that Blossom’s best friend forever (that’s how we said it before texting was invented and it became BFF) on the show was an annoyingly chipper girl named Six. What a strange name–somehow making the audience feel sorry for her and yet in awe of her “I could be a rock star” persona all at the same time.
All of this unnecessary commentary on Blossom was really just a round-about way of getting to this:
My baby is six. So that means she’s not a baby. It means she is obsessed with clothing and shoes and dolls all at the same time. It means, as you learned in an earlier post, that she joins dance contests after lunch each day, instead of cuddling up for a book with me before her nap.
She was the most amazing baby; she slept for 20 hours a day, no lie! And just when you thought that meant she was going to be laid back–watch out boys–she doesn’t take crap from anyone.
Happy Birthday, Catie Bear! You might dress like Six (again, the Blossom character; and yes, unfortunate) but you’ll always be our Baby Cate.