Okay. I can’t get past the title of this post. No. Freakin’. Way. My daughter is officially a teenager.

Ruth laughs the hardest.
She cries the easiest.
She cheers the loudest.
She mopes the most.
She disappears in her room for hours at a time.
She volunteers to clean the dishes.
She smiles the brightest.
She pouts when she doesn’t get what she wants.

You get the idea. What I’m trying to say is, Ruth is perfect, and I love her to pieces.

The boys (she often calls her brothers that…”the boys”) get tired of me saying, “But she’s the princess!” When I started saying it, making them tired of it was the point. It was a joke, an attempt to diffuse anger or laugh at frustrating situations. But somewhere along the way she really has become the princess. And I don’t care! She handles her royality well. Ruth takes a lot of good-natured crap from all of us. “Takes” being the operative word. She handles it with grace. Most of the time. And the times that she doesn’t? Who cares? ‘Cause she’s the princess.

You were the last one born, and yours is the last of the summer birthdays. It’s appropriate, because you complete our family. I love you.

Happy birthday, Ruth.