three is the magic number

Dear Bean,

As I write this, it is nearly 1am on March 3rd, 2011. A few clock strokes away from the dawn of your third birthday. For the last few hours I have been hot gluing and tying tiny bits of yellow ribbon to decorate the dining room. I'm doing my best to give you the birthday of your young dreams. Ribbon and sparkles and love.

This is what I know about an almost three-year-old: she sleeps deep and hopes for wonder when she opens her eyes. She loves to play, to think, to pretend, to dance, to sing, to laugh, to learn.

Because this is what it's like to live with an almost-three-year-old: there is a whirling dervish of play, constant movement and requests for specific toys. Weird toys like a bucket of wooden stars and a basket of fabric scraps. The almost-three-year-old asks questions. Her favorite thing is to pull me down to her side and announce with great sincerity, "Now it's time for you to ask me some questions." And then I do. Questions like What is your favorite rainbow? and What is your favorite color? and What is Piggy's favorite color? and Do you know that Mommy loves you? (answers: the one in the sky and orange and blue and yes yes yes yes yes.) The almost-three-year-old likes to dance. A strange galloping jittery thing with legs tapping up and down while she twirls in a large sweeping arc. There is lots of singing in the almost-three-year-old's house. Songs like Itsy Bitsy Spider and Ring Around the Rosie and The Frown Song, which up until two weeks ago I thought you were saying The Brown Song, and gosh darn it-- I had no idea what you were talking about, this brown song. But when it finally clicked as you told me that we needed to sing it, I understood. It was like this light in your face: recognition and understanding all rolled into one. YES! THE FROWN SONG! Which led to lots and lots of laughing. Afterward, you would imitate me as you laughed, "OH! THE FROWN SONG!" Which is to say, we do a lot of laughing at mommy.

Baby girl, I have to tell you - the last couple of weeks have been crazy. I considered not writing this birthday letter. Or at the very least, postponing it until next week. Things have been weird. And exhausting. You came down with another cold last week, your eighth cold since August (but who's counting)- and quite frankly, it's been kicking my trash having you sick like this. On top of this, your father came down with your bug last night. Watching him assemble the tricycle we're giving you for your birthday was sort of horrible, and also totally priceless. He shivered beneath a blanket and did his level best to tighten bolts. He is so proud of the little girl you're becoming, the little girl you are.

There is so much to say to you, I could take the little bits left of this darkness and write until the sun was high in the sky and still not say it all. So I'll just say this: you are a gift to us. When we celebrate your birthday, it's only a faint echo of the celebration your daddy and I do every day giving thanks that you are in our lives.

Happy birthday, sweet Bean.

Love,

Mama