It's time you know, you've joined an exclusive club begun in the 60s and 70s and culminated in a little place called Bethel, NY. (Oh sure, there are some people who think "Woodstock" happened in Woodstock, but I assure you, the legendary music festival took place on Max Yasgur's farm in Bethel). And the group to which you may now claim membership consists of an entire populace that can't be trusted because of their age -- over 30.
In your case, the number denotes only 30 months, but that's beside the point.
It is my contention that you are crafty beyond your (two +) years.
Case in point:
"Mommy, wah you wan, A o B?"
Ah ... let's see. I'll take A.
"Ok. ... wah do you wan NOooow?"
Hmmmm. I guess I'll take B.
"NO. We don't half any Bs."
If we are to truely keep track, I would mention that you are currently unable to successfully dress yourself in any article of clothing. You have, however, attempted to jam socks on your feet and put your pants on your head. (You can blame your father for that last fiasco, although he has routinely encouraged you to put my panties around your neck, which you have been successful in doing for some months now).
You still love to sing "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes (Knees and Toes)" but you are also capable of identifying, by name, your hands, elbows, hair, and bum as well your eyes and ears and mouth and nose. You are becoming interested in my breasts as more than just a place to jam your hands when you seek extra comfort, but I'm waiting to explain the whole "vagoo" thing until I've been good and drunk for a few weeks. (Sorry).
While I am trying to lose my balance to innebriation, you are finding yours much more easily these days, especially when standing on one foot, by the simple art of practice. Just last week you even let go of my hand to perform a tightrope act on top of the dugout bench at the Little League Field. You looked adorable with your arms outstretched.
Yesterday, you made it clear that you would no longer be using the "Baby Poddy," because, after all, you are a big girl now and big girls use the big girl potty. I know this will be too much information for some, but with your perched on the potty like a right parrot, repeating everything I said while you were waiting for the "POO to tum," I took a picture. I couldn't help myself because it seemed somehow like a milestone, something for the record book.
These days, I can't wait until I get home to see your sweet cheeks and feel your little arms wrap tight around my neck. I can't wait to hear the fanciful stories you are creating in volume. It seems we are living on our own Fibber Island, and, I have to admit, I've never had more fun.
Love and zerberts,