You know your three year old daughter is Swedish when she spends the morning carrying “heavy” lamps around just like Pippi Longstocking, insists on long braids just like Pippi Longstocking, dresses just like Pippi Longstocking and then makes everyone at daycare call her “Pippi” all day.
You know your daughter is American when an hour earlier she had been throwing a baseball with you and then insists on pitching to you. And you have trouble catching up to her fastball. This either says something about her arm or my bat speed. Probably both.
But what it really says is that I love my Swedish-American daughter.