A year ago, Dave Winer posted her picture, linked to my entry on that day, and celebrated the joys of childhood: “It's great to be a kid because they don't have to pretend they're not crazy, like adults do, if you know what I mean.”
No kiddin', Dave. Ah, the joy of a life without inhibitions. Zoë is free to pretend whatever she wants; to be a ballerina (“It's time for my dance recital,” she says), a super hero (“Daddy, can you put on my cape so I can be a super powers?”), or she can recruit her brothers and lead a band of scurvy pirates, bandannas and all (“Arrr, Daddy, we're hunting for buried treasure!”).
She's a clothes-horse in training, with a vast supply of dress-up clothes and a well-developed sense of style. She can be as demanding, or as dainty, or as demure as she wants to be. But usually, she's just in charge. That's Zoë — She Who Must Be Obeyed. At three. Look out, world.
It was one of those rare weekends dedicated to downtime with my daughter, Zoë. The 
Sean M. Gallagher 