Perpiversary III
Dear P,
You are three years old. Three! Years! Old! THREE! I am honestly not quite sure how that happend. You are only 1. Seriously, it seems like the last time I turned around you were 1 and now you're ... well, you're not.
Your personality continues to evolve, though you are as social as you ever were. Occasionally you will fall back when someone addresses you directly, but you generally flit about the room and chat with anyone who can be lured into a conversation. Generally it's about your birthday. "I'm free in March! But now I'm two! But I'm going to be free. In March!"
For your birthday, your grammy came up and made a gluten-free red velvet cake so that Dude and I could participate in the festivities. It looked like a blood sacrifice reminded me of a crime scene was a bit alarming. 
You might even call it scary. 
But shocking amounts of fat an artery-clogging combination an über tasty frosting of cream cheese, mascarpone, and cream hid the abbatoir aspect quite nicely. 
You seemed to appreciate the effort that went into it. At least into the frosting; you never seem too interested in cake or bread if it's covered in something sweet and gooey. If I had a dollar for every peanut butter and jelly sandwich you requested, only to find a denuded piece of bread, well I'd have at least ten bucks.
We are still astonished at your eating habits. There are very few things you won't eat, though you still go through periods of living on air for days at a time. You will request food, then give it a desultory stare and only drink your juice. I should probably cut it out entirely, the juice. I limit it to a few ounces a day, heavily watered, but your father Certain People I know give it to you straight, right out of the box. We run a classy joint here and serve our juice in boxes. Buster Bluth would weep for joy. 
You continue to sleep with every toy under the sun. I check on you before I go to bed and there are nights when you barely have enough room for yourself. I suppose surrounding yourself with beloved objects helps you to sleep well -- well enough that you can fall out of bed head-first and not wake up -- but I can't stop myself from clearing you a small plot to curl up in where you won't gash your head open on a sharp corner.
I recently found you with your crayon container over your face. The entire inside was coated with condensation from your sweaty forehead (what is it with your people and the sweating? Is there a toddler that doesn't sleep sweat?). It's a wonder you haven't suffocated. Dammit, I'll get that Mother of the Year certificate yet.
You continue to say the funniest things. We drove past the local carwash recently and you said, "Is that the bathhouse?" Yes. And the cars? they go there to swap fluids willy nilly. Sometimes when we're asleep, ours head over there for an anonymous quickie.
You started school in January. Three days a week you ride in with your father in the morning and I pick you up after naptime in the afternoon. You make art, hear stories, play with friends, all the things you expect preschoolers to do. Best of all, though, you go out into the world and engage it on your own terms. You also get to spend the day with your boyfriend, which pleases you very much. Every morning when you arrive, he runs over to you and you hug and kiss each other. I have offered to bring the paperwork in to cement the relationship but the dowry doesn't seem to be satisfactory. I may toss in a few chickens to try and sweeten the deal.
I regret to say that your love of television continues unabated. It seems to be a meditative experience for you; sometimes we actually have to club you in the head shake you out of your trance turn the tv off to get you to respond to a question.
It's a bit unnerving.
Mostly, though, you are very engaged with the world, and notice things on a regular basis pass unseen right before my eyes. You can never go back and view the world through a child's eyes, but you can borrow them, as it were. It's like having my own service toddler. "Look," you shriek when you see the car dealership, "banoons!!" I never would have noticed them.
The cat continues to adore you unconditionally. I find this hard to fathom given the abuse you pile on her. You sit on her. You pull her tail. You chase her around. But every night, there she is, purring away like a tiny grey Evenrude. 
The dog is a bit less sanguine, but still remarkably tolerant of her lot in life. I'd sure as shit be pissed if I were in her shoes. Mostly that's my fault, though. Apparently I can only mother one species at a time semi-effectively. 
You have started to sing songs that we actually recognize. The current favorite is something about having no bees upon oneself. I shudder at the thought. Given your reluctance to play in the mud or get too dirty, it's kind of funny to hear.
You also love to read. Maybe a bit too much. 
I swear to God that is exactly how I found you.
It's been a crazy three years. It seems like only yesterday that you were a little pink lump I could leave on the couch while I lay there unconscious and drooling napped did the dishes.
We can't imagine what life would be without you, big girl.
Love,
Mama
