Mylora

S has an older friend, a sister-in-law of MY sister-in-law. She met her at some family gathering once, probably a birthday party for my nephews or something.

The woman grabbed up that "sweet little thang" the very first time she met her, and held her close. She hugged and rocked her the rest of the afternoon.

S had a hangnail that day. A hangnail!
And she showed Lora, and Lora fixed it with a sympathetic kiss, Neosporin, and a princess Band-aid.

S was in her glory.

Lora asked her to come back some day soon, and they would dress up all "beautiful-like", do their "hair up all pretty", and eat lots and lots of candy.

Ever since then, Lora has not been anyone else's friend.
S claimed her as her own.

In fact, now Lora is known as Mylora, because that is all we ever hear her called:

"My Lora" this, and "My Lora" that.

Recently, Mylora gave S "a special bag for a special girl". This special (plastic grocery) bag contained:
Pon poms, a princess/cheerleader dress, a wand, a bejeweled crown, elegant "glass" slippers, earrings, and a necklace.

Our girl is no longer a girl.

She is a princess. Do not call her by any other name. A princess. Or, if you prefer, a beautiful princess will do.

S has been donning this beautiful attire, gracefully (?) gliding (tripping and falling) about her castle (the living room), calling out orders (yup, orders) to her faithful (not very) subjects (her brothers).

She is more beautiful ("I am so pretty, mama!") and more confident ("Everyone likes me, don't they, mama?!") than I have seen her in her life.

Thank you, Mylora. You are nice.