You are a funny, funny child. At least a couple of times each day, you say something that cracks me and your father up, often much to our dismay--like the times when we're trying to discipline you and you say something outrageous, which leads to both of us holding back laughter and smiles and flashing each other looks across the room. We try really hard to be stern when the situation calls for it, but sometimes we just want to collapse in laughter as a result of some of the things you come up with.
Your favorite game in the whole wide world right now is when I or K blow raspberries on your stomach. You think this is hilarious and will lie on your back with your arms spread wide, screeching, "Do it again, do it again!" Your second favorite game is pretending that you're going to kiss K and instead giving him a raspberry on his cheek. You then scream out "I tricked you!" and dissolve into hysterical giggles.
Recently, you've gotten into giving names to your stuffed animals and baby dolls. Strange, somewhat weird names, but names, nonetheless. Last week, you informed me that your bunny's name was Little Philip. Then, when I asked what your baby doll's name was, you informed me that it was Myga. You've made me promise that when we get you a kitten of your very own, that we will name it Hello Kitty. Or possibly Baby Franklin.
On a similar note, you recently informed me that you would like a little sister, and that you would like her name to be Lola Philip. (You have a thing for the name Philip, apparently.)
Your vocabulary floors me and your dad on a regular basis--last week, K reported that while playing with your hippos in the bathtub, you informed him that they had refused to participate in the picnic you were having. Perhaps we're biased, but that seems pretty advanced for three-and-a-half.
Sometimes, your pronunciation of words is hysterical. In your way of thinking, helicopter is pronounced "holigoctor," living room is pronounced "mibbing room," and football is pronounced "cooball." Some days I correct you, and some days I just enjoy the little bit of babyhood that's left in you.
You almost always say please and thank you, and you always say "excuse me" after burping or passing gas. Although you usually announce as well that you "just gassed."
You're working on learning how to write and spell your name right now. Sorry we gave you such a long name. If it's any consolation, your middle name is Lee.
Your favorite movie right now is "A Muppet Christmas Carol," and you love to tell me how scary the Ghost of Christmas Future is, even though you're not quite sure whether he's good scary or bad scary. You walk around the house shouting "Ker-MIT!" "KER-mit!" This is because you're thrilled that I finally clued you in on how to pronounce his name correctly, after you called him "Herman" for several days.
Unfortunately, you inherited my severe lack of hand-eye coordination skills. When we play catch together, it looks like something out of a horror movie. At least we're both getting our exercise, as neither of us can catch the ball and we constantly have to run around retrieving it. As a result, we now prefer to play catch with balloons, as they're a lot more slow moving.
You're at that cute age where you think the moon is following us, and now that it's starting to get dark outside when I pick you up from daycare, we regularly have races with the moon to see who can get home first. The moon usually lets us win.
Our cats still hate you and run from you in fear. One day, you'll have a kitten of your own that hopefully won't find you so terrifying. Although he/she might be a little irritated with you for other reasons, beginning with his/her name.
You're sneaky, which, unfortunately, you also inherited from me. Last night, you had an accident in your bed and tried to clean it up on your own, until I woke up because you'd turned on every light in the house and were trying to figure out how to turn on the dryer. You regularly run into the kitchen to grab a towel. When I ask if you've spilled something, your response is always "Nope." Sometimes, I let you think you're fooling me.
You let me dress you as a panda bear for Halloween this year, even though a part of you really really wanted to be Tinkerbell. Or Ariel. Or Jasmine. Or any one of those princesses. I enjoyed one last year of getting to dress you up as a cute fluffy animal.
I have a confession to make--you've received a couple of Bratz-themed gifts, which your father and I have promptly made disappear. Sorry, but I don't want you idolizing those scary-looking, pre-pubescent floozies. I have my hands full as it is trying to keep you grounded in a world full of Barbie dolls and Disney princesses.
You are beautiful, intelligent, sweet, funny, loving, and warm-hearted. I know I'm biased, but I honestly couldn't have asked for a better daughter than you.
I love you, pretty girl, all the way to the moon and back.