In just a few days you'll be three. Everyone who sees you lately remarks on how tall you've grown or how mature you've gotten.
I can't believe it myself even though for months I've been telling folks who ask your age that you're almost three. I feel as if I wasted a sizable chunk of the twos - and for the record, they weren't that terrible.
It's hard to believe that in a few more years I'll probably forget about how you used to sing to yourself in the car. Songs made up out of bits and pieces of the day.
"Oh I had and cat at the lake. She said MOOO. And Meow. And she didn't eat cake only OR-E-Os. ... MAMA, SING!"
Or how you'd admonish me with gravel in your voice and exaspiration in your tone when I'd tell you that I didn't know the words. "MA-OM! SING!"
I love how you tell me "I luf you," and "I din't know the cewewool spills from the top of the box when you lift it up by the bottom."
It's a good thing we have dogs, because the vaccum cleaner is pretty freaking useless and it's always in need of being emptied anyway.
I love how you giggle and say "You are my favorite mommy" and how your dad is "your favorite daddy" and how you pat Maggie's head and say she's your favorite doggie. It's even funny how you look at Madeline and call her crazy, like it's such a shame.
I love how lately the world and everything in it is superlative:
"This is the best cookie I ever had."
"This is the greatest pear I ever ate."
"This is the best drawing I ever made."
And how your tastes evolve:
"I don't want the lemony buscuits or the chocolatey ones, but maybe the coconutty would be good."
Even how you watch TV is endearing: Body all busy with a slight smile on your face as if it's all just so wonderous. And then you'll say - as if to reassure yourself - "dogs don't really talk do they."
So now that you really are almost three, I am pleased to report that life with you around is still magic, and you are still a wonder. And I would guess that you're at least 76 percent cuter than you were last year.