What It Means to be Female

  The Princess, aged two, discovered my high heels yesterday.
  She is usually content with my flats, since they are "RED"!
  (My daughter only speaks in shouted, capital letters, because life is apparently too short to be anything less than overwhelmingly enthusiastic. Most of the time, this is utterly adorable. "MOMMY!" "KITTY!" "I'S-GOT-A-DUCK!" And then there's 7:45 a.m. "MOMMY!" I'S-A-CEREAL!" "YOU'S-A-COFFEEE!" But I digress - )

    My little Princess found my black heels, and proceeded to put them on - on the wrong feet, of course. Then she frowned, and looked at me with a pout of pure, innocent, bewilderment. "OUCH!"
   "Yes, they are ouch," I agreed. "It is the nature of high heels."
   She took a step. "OUCH!"
   "You needn't wear them," I pointed out. "You could wear Mommy's red shoes."
   She stubbornly took another step. "OUCH!"
   "Child," I said, "you could just take them off."
   She stared at me, uncomprehending.
  "Why don't you take the shoes off?" I asked.
   "OUCH!"
   "Do you want to take them off???" I asked (in a voice perfectly calm and not at all exasperated).
   She was miffed. "NO!" Then she toddled off, wobbling in pain.
   "Very good, my daughter!" I called after her. "Embrace the pain, because they are fantastically beautiful shoes! This is what it means to be female!"