I lost track of the days and the weeks, and I forgot to write you a letter at the 32 month mark. Yes, I know you didn't realize it, and I'm pretty sure you didn't care (it's not like you slid me a note that said, "Hey, Maa. Where's my blog letter, yo?"), but it's been bothering me, so this is a combination letter. This is just one of the many things I've already screwed up in your little world, and I'm sure it's just one of the many things I will screw up. So cheers! I raise my cup of blueberries to you, my darling Bird, the very same blueberries you keep naming before you eat them. You're a strange ranger.
We brought you to Disney World last month and watched you take in all of the magic of the aptly named kingdom. "Magic Kingdom is a part of Disney World," you would said, nodding your head as the new authority on all-things related to The Mouse. "And this is where Mickey Mouse lives. And Pluno!" (Someday you'll call him Pluto, but not today.) Surprisingly, it was easy to travel with you this round, and I am already looking forward to bringing you somewhere new and curious. We watched you open your presents this Christmas, laughing as you peeled the wrapping paper off the gifts strip by miniscule strip, and proud of the big, loud, "THANK YOU!" that escaped your mouth after each present. (Also, your dad and I were highly entertained at your insistence to leave Santa's reindeer an avocado alongside the cookies. "It's a good fat, right mama?")
You talk incessantly. From the moment you wake up in the morning to the moment you pretend to fall asleep at night, it's a steady stream of words flowing from your face. Whether it's about what you want for breakfast ("May I please have toast eggies and a banana and maybe we play trains but I will wash my hands first.") or your thoughts about school ("We played outside and I wore my snow boots but Eric didn't want to wear his boots so we all watched him while we cried but we didn't cry we just watched him and then there were trees and we all saw the trees but not Eric because he was crying."), you are always talking. Always.
Your temper is becoming more apparent, too, and I'm humbled by how quickly and efficiently you can tell me, "NO." "No thank you," is my weak response, an attempt at keeping you polite as you refuse to put pants on. You are a good listener, but holy crap are you able to manipulate me with your cries. Sometimes it takes all I have to be firm in my resolve to not let you have something or let you do something, but when you're older and are reading these letters, you'll understand that I wanted to cave and let you eat every M&M or jump on every couch or lick every shopping cart. I just couldn't.
And you are understanding things in new ways now. Like the new Dexcom system. "This is your new Dexcom!" When it alarms and it's low, you know the difference and you ask if I need some "glupose tabs." And when it alarms and I'm high, you and I both throw a dirty look to the kitchen table, where the receiver is resting, and you say, "That your Dexcom. But we can leave it out there because that's the Other Noise." How you can tell the difference in the alarms, when your dad still can't, amazes me.
Last night, you were asleep in your "big girl bed" (aka "crib without the sides") and I noticed that your lanky little body takes up so much more room in the bed than it used to. I immediately started wondering when we're supposed to get you a real-deal Big Girl Bed and what should I do with the crib because we still aren't in a place where we're ready to make a firm decision on whether or not to expand our family and what happens if you suddenly outgrow your bed and will it be like that scene in Ski Patrol where the guy wakes up in the Elf Dorm and ...
... and I stopped and looked at your sweet, sleeping face. Your brown curls tumbling onto the pillow and fanning around your head. Your hands knotted up in your soft blanket, and your tiny toenails bright pink, the result of you begging me to paint them after your bath. And the soft, still-baby-esque scent of your hair and skin came up and grabbed me by the heart.
Little bird, it doesn't matter what kind of bed you sleep in, or how many words you can throw into a sentence at one time. You will always, always be my little girl.