This morning my lovely 5-year-old came up behind me as I was getting dressed. Her constant flow of chatter stopped briefly. Mid "America, The Beautiful," I believe.
Suddenly I felt a warm little finger poke me. Poke me! Well, more specifically, I felt a warm little finger poke my, oh, let's optimistically call it a slight "love handle," shall we? (I was bent over at the time, struggling into my exercise pants, so there may have been-- perhaps-- a slight bulge.)
"Fluffy!" she said happily.
I have quite recently (like, two minutes ago) come to the conclusion that children are bad for the momma's self-esteem.