When you are three years old, you do not have to worry about yourself to die. When you are old and a half, you do need to worry about yourself to die.
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Wendy: Can I hold your hand?
Izzy: No but I still love you.
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Izzy picked my bra up off the floor and said: Can I wear your booby shoes?
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Izzy: I am Santa Claus. Here is your present. (she handed me a plastic pillow puff from a box that we just received in the mail.)
Wendy: But Santa, I asked for a pony
Izzy: Whoops! Too bad!
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