Oh no. It can’t be. You can’t be three. Three is a big boy (as you are fond of telling me). Three is not a baby anymore. You will still give me snuggles and kisses but mostly only when you are tired or sick. You are busy and happy and a complete and utter delight. You are strong willed and funny. You are never without a truck, digger, or car, and sometimes all three. You say “hepadopter” for helicopter and it makes me laugh every time. Sometimes you say, “I wuv you Mama” and it makes me want to cry. You say “mommy” or “mama” about 2,000 times a day which sometimes makes me want to scream. You love breakfast and snacks but you can take or leave dinner. You are soothed by playing with the seam of your mattress. Every single time I put you in your crib this is our exchange.
You: “I play with my seam?”
Me: “Yes my sweet angel.”
You: “I put my thumb in my mouth?”
Me: “Yes, my sweet boy.”
You: “You said angel. That’s silly.”
But you can’t be three. Wasn’t it just yesterday that you were this person?
Oh yes, and just another plug for vegetarianism. Those thighs came from a diet of breast milk only. Vegetarian mama breast milk.