In some ways it is like raising Punk all over again.

She wakes up in the morning and she is not herself.
Never - not ever.
And heaven forbid we should call her by her given name.

"I am Mulan today."
"I am being Belle."
"I am Princess Anna, and you will be Princess Elsa."
"Where is the prince?"

Lately she has been obsessed with the new Disney movie "Frozen."  She spends her days beckoning our seven pound mutt -  referring to him by his Arctic-reindeer name, "Sven".  We shovel snow for fun, drink cocoa and braid her hair into two french braids in a vain attempt to make my Greek baby look as Nordic as possible. She can often be found laying motionless in the middle of the living room, feigning death until someone brings her back with "a kiss of true love."  Doesn't matter whose kiss really - mine, the prince's, Sven the poodle's - whatever.

When Punk was three we couldn't even go to the grocery store without a fist-full of straw in his pants so everyone knew he was the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.

I thought he was one-of-a-kind.

At least this time I'm only picking up dropped tiaras, and re-braiding hair.  Calling around for fresh straw in the middle of December was tougher than it sounds.