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Piglet’s Tiny Tyrant nickname never feels more apt than when I’m peeling and quartering grapes before feeding them directly into her mouth, because she’s gotten too bored and lazy to feed herself. It’s cemented by her haughty expression of knowing smugness at the situation.
Unless it’s more apt when she demands to sleep only while being held in a cuddle, refusing to lie in her cot. Cast as a palanquin, my pot-belly serving as a pillow — her breathing, a babbling brook — teaches me my place in the pecking order.
And you know what, I wouldn’t change a single thing.