Cute.

Some one told me I was cute today.

She also thought I was fifteen.

I didn't correct her on either accounts.

Proof I'm growing up a little.

But I have to say, it was a strange feeling being called cute.  It hasn't happened in such a looooooong time.  I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that for the last fifteen months I looked (and felt) like this most of the time:

This was taken just a few hours of being home from the hospital.  I was unshowered, unrested, and completely unraveled.  (I can not accurately describe my horror when my aunt posted this picture on our family website too.  Keeps me humble, I guess.)  Yet, I proceeded to recreate this look daily for almost a year.  When Andrea's favorite games were "grab mommy's eyeballs" and "pull mommy's hair" I got to a point that getting ready was just wasted effort.

Don't judge me; I'm doing better now.

Anyway, my looks aside, another reason that I was taken aback at being called cute was probably because I've become so accustomed to being only seen as the vessel used to transport this little cutie:

And I don't mind because those big blue eyes melt me into puddles all the time.  Those little hands tapping on my legs and her tiny feet pittering across the kitchen floor make my day sunny.  The efforts I take to bathe, brush, wipe, feed, console, surprise, amuse, feed, distract, calm, feed, and feed some more are my work and my joy,  Her happy spirit and shy sweetness are the manifestations my daily endeavor to keep her alive and well, so when people compliment her, which they do almost every time we leave the house, they are indirectly complimenting me.  So I don't mind one bit that she steals the show at every public appearance.

Perhaps this, of all reasons, is what made the compliment of today so strange, because it was a reminder that before there was her, there was just me.