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My daughter is particular.

One might also use “obsessive.”

Or “anal.”

Or “she’s-three-door-knob-taps-away-from-an-OCD-diagnoses.”

But I like “particular” as it strikes me as a fairly neutral term. One that won’t be repeated in therapy 15 years from now when Sunny describes all the ways in which I have “damaged” her.

I have no problem with her referencing the fact that I rarely, if ever, wear pants in the house. The jumbo-sized feet she’s inherited from me and their impact on her shoe collection are also open to psycho-analysis. But I want to be very careful about what language and descriptors I apply to my kid.

Wack-a-doo. Monkey-pants. Bug.

Those I’m okay with.

But just this week I learned that referring to one’s child as “shy” can create a self-fulfilling prophecy that leads to continued shyness. People may find it hard to believe that I have produced a less than socially outgoing child, but if you’ve met James, you’d understand.

I don’t want Addison to ever feel badly about her “isms,” as my mother would call them. They are clearly a part of who she is, and I love who she is, so why use language that might connote something negative or shameful?

But I do want to talk about them, because they sure do provide a great deal of entertainment for me and James.

As a parent, it is a fascinating thing to watch your child develop personality traits and quirks that you yourself have not demonstrated or taught to said child. It is a miraculous and humbling thing to realize that you have very little control over the innate personality of your offspring. Sure, you can teach manners and social graces, social skills that will help guide that personality, but ultimately your kid is gonna be, who your kid is gonna be.

So when Addison repeatedly demands to “wipey one” (which means to have her right index finger wiped by my hand or James’ as those she is having her finger pulled), we oblige. When she requests this action multiple times in a row, we sigh and get to wiping.

I know James is just itching to teach her to say “Pull my finger” instead of “Wipey one” so the kid can at least get some jokes out of this compulsion.

When she screams and pulls out her pigtails or braids instantly upon styling, shouting “NO HAIR BAND! OUT OUT!” we put away the bows and barrettes and call it a day, soothing our Lady Macbeth.

She sorts and organizes her Goldfish and then eats them by color. Leaving aside orange. Because honestly, who would eat orange Goldfish?

She will not eat broken chips or crackers or cookies. She distraughtly passes them our way, bemoaning, “Ohhhhh noooooo, broken. Messy.”

She does not like mess. Of any kind. When the dogs’ water bowl spills. Or she dribbles milk on the carpet.

And let’s not talk about the number of times she demands that her hands be washed over the course of one meal.

One of the most exhausting albeit adorable new quirks is her constant repetition of phrases. Things like “Thank you, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy…” or “Good night, Mommy. Good night, Mommy. Good night, Mommy…” said over and over and over again. James and I will interject and respond hoping that this will put an end to her ramblings, but she has the stamina of the Energizer Bunny. She fluctuates between happy, neutral, distraught, sad, upbeat, and so on, experiencing an impressive spectrum of emotion in each cycle.

We have a living, breathing broken record in our home.

I managed to capture tonight’s orations on my phone. And remember, it’s because she’s just very “particular” about conveying her message.