At any given moment, your wrist is adorned with 5+ slightly damp and certainly germ-laden hair bands, yet you don’t even know how to put your own hair in a ponytail.
You have ONE consistent chore in this house, but I have to remind you to do it 99% of the time. (“Bailey, did you feed the dogs?”)
Trimming your bangs must cause you physical pain since you whine and moan so passionately when I have to do it, but HEAVEN FORBID I suggest you grow them out.
Those aren’t finger nails, they are teeth-gnashed, grubby little finger nubs. Ew.
…and that’s just about all I can come up with in the Bailey Gripes department.
Bailey Boles, you have been 8 years of pure love and light. You make me gush in superlatives and hyperbole. I can’t help it. There’s just no other way to use words to describe you. You are my best gal pal, and I am forever your #1 fan. Hear me when I say that there is nothing in this world that you could ever do or choose or say or even think that would lessen the amount of love I have for you. I’ve got your back, and you have my heart.
(Oh! You also kind of suck at keeping your dresser drawers clean. So take that.)