Now you are three! You are hilarious and brave and determined and silly and very, very ticklish. You love coloring and pretending to write letters and doing anything Ezra does. You are very polite. When someone asks you if you want something you automatically say “no, thank you!” then giggle, roll your eyes, and say, “I mean yes thank you!” When we ask if you have something, you widen your eyes and seriously state “I do.”
You love your friends Ingy and Rosie. You are indifferent to the potty. You hate pants. You hate it when Ezra tries to tell you who to pretend to be, sobbing, “I’m NOT Princess Anna! I’m Sally from Busytown!” You love Sally from Busytown.
Since I’m writing this letter to you a bit late, I’ve had a chance to see you be three for a little while, and before I look back over your last months of two-and-three-quarters-ness, let me mention that I’m not entirely pleased that you got the memo about being three. The memo apparently states that you must express your disappointment with being told “no” about anything with the most tragic face-crumpling ever seen, that a dark cloud of tragedy must haze your eyes, and that you must fall sobbing to the ground in a sodden heap of misery. Three is a dramatic age.
But you have always been a dramatic girl. When Dada comes home from work every day, you run down the hall at top speed and literally leap into his arms. You give full-body hugs while swooning, “I love you so much!” On your first run down the big sled hill on our yearly trip to Galena, just a few days after your third birthday, you demanded to go down headfirst, on your back, by yourself. It was the craziest possible arrangement, but there was no talking you out of it, and down you went. When you reached the bottom, you felt you had completed your perfect run and declined to sled any more that day.
The next day you sledded so much that on the way up the big hill back to the car, as I was pulling you in the sled, you simply lay down and fell asleep. Sleeping Beauty. I mean, Sleeping Sally from Busytown.
The last few months, you have become very interested in baby dolls. While Ezra always slept with a giant pile of stuffed friends, you’ve never been much of a sleeper with stuff. But then you slowly but surely started wanting your baby doll with you more and more. One night I left you in your room at bedtime, awake and sitting on the floor reading books, and when I returned, you had gotten the baby and tucked yourself in, cuddling her through the night.
A few weeks ago you told me that the baby’s name was “Jon Bon Jon Bon Jon” and I couldn’t help myself, I said, “Oh, you mean Jon Bon Jovi? The doll is named Jon Bon Jovi?” And so she is. For your birthday Grammy gave you and Jon Bon Jovi matching nightgowns, and I love peeking in on you at night with Jon Bon Jovi in your arms.
Your interest in fashion has only grown stronger. You have incredibly clear opinions about what you should wear each day (usually summery party dresses and tights) and what you should not wear (pants, basically ever). You discovered headbands and became obsessive. With an infusion of new birthday headbands from Grammy and Aunt Lilli, you are now able to cycle through many headband looks each day, and choose a new one for bed each night. You love sparkly shoes and polka-dotty tights.
Because you have an older brother, most of your toys have been pretty gender-neutral, but by three, you’ve started getting some special girl stuff just for you. I’ve tried to keep the pink princessy stuff to a bare minimum, but you certainly do love it. So does Ezra, so at least there’s that. I love watching the two of you negotiate who gets to wear the fairy princess costume you got from Nana and Papa for your birthday, or both of you sitting for half an hour putting eye, mouth, jewelry, and hair accessory stickers on blank pretty-lady faces. I got you a craft project for your birthday but I needn’t have bothered; your very favorite thing I gave you on your birthday was a tube of Hello Kitty lip gloss.
Speaking of kitties, your love for Lucy is true and deep and beautiful. You call her “my kitty” or sometimes “my precious kitty,” and several times a day you kidnap her for some special hugs. She’s patient and loves attention, but she’s old and fragile, and I fear your days of loving on her may be numbered. But for now, it’s great fun to watch you cuddle her like a baby and sing sweet songs in her ears.
Glossy kisses and sparkly hugs, my three year old girl.