A Beautiful Butterfly

Most of the time, these days, I don't have a little girl living with me.  I'm sort of used to it, since Willow has described herself as anything but a little girl since she could talk--she's a penguin, she's a hedgehog, she's my little bird.  She's Chrysanthemum, she's Stillwater, she's Ming Ming--it can be very difficult to keep track.

But the identity crisis hasn't tended to manifest itself quite so profoundly, to the point where Willow was almost a beautiful butterfly in the swimming pool because despite appearances there are times when those wings and antennae simply do not detach, despite the best efforts of parental figures.

(Please do note that despite the black polka dots and red wings, this is not a ladybug, but a butterfly.  A beautiful butterfly, to be specific).





The beautiful butterfly makes several appearances a day, always heralded by a dance to Vivaldi's Spring, usually followed by The Farmer In The Dell.