My baby's growing up. She just turned 3, but she's already going on about 15. I know this because of the amount of sass I get every day. She already knows better than I do and don't try to tell her otherwise. The only times she becomes very agreeable are when a Kit-Kat, shopping, or 4 wheeler rides are involved.

But, no, really. 3 is a fun age. Her observations about things she doesn't quite understand are hilarious. Her creativity is through the roof. She asks a million questions about everything and never forgets what you told her first. Needless to say, we have to be very consistent with our answers.

However, one thing hasn't changed. She's happiest when she's following Daddy around.

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She asks questions.

She gets answers.

And she's an excellent diesel-jug-holder.

Calves need feeding?

She’s got it covered.

Being a shortie makes that a lil’ hard sometimes!

Manure needs jumped in?

Um… manure never needs jumped in. To Peanut, though, this is one of life’s greatest pleasures.

And this is the face of a guilty person.

Chained to the washer and dryer,

The Dairymaid

P.S. There’s a “less-than” symbol in this post. I’ve spent the last 30 minutes trying to get out of there. I’ve pulled every last hair on my head out and it still remains. I quit. I hate math.