Last Friday, your turned three years old.
This morning, you took off your sneakers in the church narthex and threw them at me shouting, "I don't want to wear these today!" Last week, I put you in time out; I don't remember why. You snarked, "You go 'way, you ole' woman!" Your feelings are bigger than the ruffles on your skirts and bloomers, and I fear that your attitude now is merely warming me up for your teenage years.
Every evening around 6:30, you melt. You try to slap me as I carry you upstairs and undress your exhausted, still baby fat little body. Then, you wrap your arms around my neck and press your cheek to mine for snuggles, and in an instant, all is forgiven.
You are a force of nature, and to be honest, you scare me a little bit. I believe with my whole heart that you're smarter than me, and you'll do amazing things someday
--if only I can discipline you meaningfully and kindly without breaking your spirit.
You love "My Little Ponies" and Dora the Explorer, and you desperately want to fill my shoes--the higher the heel the better. When you grow up, you want to be a princess with a long pony tail, just like mine. No lipstick is too red, and no job too tough. You think I can handle anything, and even though I know it's not true,
I hope that I'm setting an example for you of the kind of woman you'd like to be.
Your brother knows you're a handful (and he's a bucketful, or so he says). You're at the crossroads of toddlerhood and preschooler--where Cheerios give way to Goldfish Crackers, and diapers give way to potties, even the auto-flushers.
Each day will present its own challenges, and I have no doubt you'll tackle them with gusto. Today, I watched you carefully cover an auto-flusher sensor with toilet paper (or as you call them, "paper towels"), just so that you could handle your business in peace.
Remember this: for me, watching you graduate from college will give me with the same sense of pride and bittersweet gladness that watching you manage your nemesis, the auto-flusher, gave me.
For real.
Someday, you'll trade your frills and tiara for a cap and gown, for a business suit and heels, or scrubs and sensible shoes. I hold not a single doubt that you'll channel all of your three-year old exuberance into becoming an incredible person with your own special spin on whatever you choose to replace your frills:
You've always know how to work an outfit.
For now, be three. Throw the fits. Grow into your feelings, and every now and then, let them be bigger than your tiny frame--good or bad.
Hold close to your friends. You never know which one will be your friend for life.
Hold closer to your brother. He knows you better than anyone
(and he totally gets your crazy parents too).
Play with dolls as long as you want. Junior high boys probably won't want to dance anyway--even if you do know all the steps to the Cha Cha Slide.
Eat the cake. Always.
Always remember that pretty is as pretty does.
And you, you are beautiful.
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