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By thewritersdesk, H-Town, MD

Click-clack-click-clack. The old wooden stairs are tattletales, their creaks indicating a late night reprieve from the bustling hospital, or a midnight affair with Ben and Jerry. The sound grows, and I stop typing as I see the brass knob twist.
“I’m a model, Mommy! Watch! Watch!” I watch as my daughter sways and wobbles in patent red heels (five sizes too big), a pink feather boa, and a plastic silver tiara. By the time she walks across the office, her cheeks had turned a rosy hue, her tiara tilted and tangled in her light blonde hair.
“Whaddaya think?” she exclaims, her eyes gleaming up at me, obviously proud of her bold fashion statement and her fall-free catwalk.
“I think those heels belong back in mommy’s closet,” I grin, swooping her into my lap in one smooth motion. I say this to her because, for one, she should ask before she takes things from others and secondly, I can’t stand the thought of my four-year-old as a teenager in high heels, flirting with boys and dressing in hip-hugging jeans and a fitted shirt.

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