The first time I took Posey on the swings, she hated it.  She sat there, in her fancy coat, and just hung. No smile. No movement.

Nothing.

The second time I took her, she had the time of her life. She grinned, she rocked, she rolled.

What was different? Another baby.

Posey didn’t seem to know how to form her own opinion.  The swings weren’t fun until she watched someone else enjoy them.  Sweet potatoes, peas, apples, carrots all got sad faces until I made a silly “Mmmmmmm!” sound after the first bite. Then they were delicious. She liked what we told her to like. I know she’s a baby, but still. This kind of made me sad. As a kid, I was really concerned with what others liked/did/wanted. I didn’t grow out of it until college.  I think I hoped my kid would march to the beat of her own drum at an early age.

And then, we went shoe shopping.

I held up gold gladiator sandals. Denim sneakers. White, flowery mary janes. Yellow ballet flats. And the glorious pink leather owl thingies. I used the bracket system. By process of elimination, the owl slip-ons won every time, no matter which hand I held them in. She reached for them– and only them– every single time. She liked something. I was so proud.

Posey wore her new owl shoes out on the town tonight. I would have chosen the gold sandals. She made a different choice than I would have. She has her own opinion now.

And I’m devastated.