Dear Lucy,

This morning I had to run downstairs for a minute, and when I returned, you were jumping on our bed with just a pink tank top on. When I appeared in the door, you squealed in anticipation and delight, knowing you were breaking the rules. Do you know how hard it was to sternly tell you to get down from there, that it was dangerous and you might fall, yadda yadda Safety Mom, without laughing?

Not only at the grin and giggles that spread into your eyes that are identical to mine, but because, my love, years from now you will be mortified to know that each jump you took exposed your plump nekkid bum to the world out the window behind you.

The other day I pulled our covers back to make our bed, and found a purple My Little Pony, a plastic ball, two stuffed dogs and one of your socks.

How did those get there? I asked you.

“I was havin’ a picnic, Mumma,” you said, holding your hands in the air and tilting your head. Like, duh, woman.

These so represent you at 3 years old. Full of surprises and oddities, with healthy dose of laughter and exasperation.

Your two biggest achievements this year were confidence and imagination.

Someone would just glance in your direction at the grocery store a year ago, and you’d burst into tears. Other kids — not even older ones — would come to the playground, and you’d shy up, letting them go first and watching them warily.

Now you answer questions when sweet ladies talk to you, and proudly hold up three fingers when they ask how old you are. “I’m almost three. And this is my sister!” You are so proud of Baby Alice and love to show her off when we are out. I see you with other kids, and you speak up when they take things from you. By the end of this summer, you were waiting your turn on the slide alongside other children, grinning down at us.

I love to listen to you play by yourself — something you have always been great at — and chat to yourself over the monitor at night. You make up stories — “C’mon everybody! Let’s go to the market!” — put your favourite people into songs — “No more Daddies jumpin’ on the bed!” — and crack jokes — “I am going to eat your knees….that’s silly!” You will sit and play Little People house forever, taking the family on grand adventures like bombing out the front door being chased by the doggie, or eating pancakes for dinner.

For Christmas you got these flat wooden animals with holes around the edges to practice lacing. You had them open not 10 minutes and were dragging them around the floor and dropping them off arm chairs by the string — “Goin’ fishing,” you said.

You love pink. You love Dora. You love stomping in puddles and playing outside. You still love lift-the-flap books, but will easily sit through longer, more detailed stories such as Fancy Nancy and the Posh Puppy (you memorized it in days! I was blown away). You love television, too: Busytown Mysteries, Miss Spider’s Sunny Patch Friends and Zoboomafoo. You do puzzles daily. You are very creative and love to make crafts with me, colour and do playdough.

Whether it’s making dinner, bathing Alice, cleaning or some other grown-up task, the first words out of your mouth are always, “Can I help?” And “help” you do, in your own clumsy, 3-year-old way of learning and messing. You make tasks take 10 times longer. But you are so proud when the cookie dough comes together, or you carefully stir soup on the stove.

“I did it!” you proclaim.

We hear this, too, when you do things “all by myself.” Which is everything: Undoing buttons, putting on your underwear, doing the buckles on your booster seat, snapping puzzles pieces into place. It is an exercise in patience for us to let you do it by yourself, when we know we can do it 8,000 times faster. But this is how we both learn. And there is nothing more gratifying and sad to a parent then when their child learns something new, and takes yet another step towards independence.

Of course, the times when we need you to do things all by yourself — get your boots on as we flail about to leave the house — then we have to do it. And helpus if we get it wrong. Bring on the scream.

You love to wrestle with Daddy. As dinner is ending you ask if it’s bath night. Almost every night you ask for a cuddle, and just light up when one of us is able to climb into bed with you. It’s such a treat to be snuggled in the covers as you pat our faces and whisper our names and giggle.

Four months into being a big sister, you are still equally interested and ambivalent about Alice. One second you want to help and kiss and play with her, the next you ignore her cries and drooly smiles. You tell us you are going to share your toys with her. I keep meaning to get a recording of that.

Feeding Spencer is your chore. “I have to feed my dog!” you yell when you get home from daycare, barreling into the kitchen with him hot on your heels. “I fed my dog. He’s so cute! I love him. But sometimes he’s stinky,” you say.

You adore your extended family, and beg to go on sleepovers to other people’s houses.  You love your friends Eirinn and Pearl, and playdates and new toys and scenery. “I want to go to someone’s house,” you tell me on the days you’re home with me, while simultaneously fighting to stay in your sleeper all day.

You really are a good kid, Lucy. You are kind and empathetic and generous and sensitive. You listen really well and respect us. You may try things you know are bad, just to see what happens, but rarely repeat them. The older you get, the more affectionate you become.

Oh, Goose.  I’m having a much harder time with you turning 3 than me turning 30. Because from here on in, you really are a little girl.

Each day I tell you to stop growing. And each day you eyes crinkle up in a knowing smile older than your age, and you throw your hands in the air, stand on your tip toes and reach for the sky.

Keep growing, my sweet girl. I am so proud of you every day.

Happy Birthday.

Love Mumma

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