Dearest Babybel,
I have to apologize. As all good parents should. To let you know that we're not infallible super humans. By day, at least. Under the cover of dark and robed in a (preferably neon pink) spandex disguise? Well, that is another story.
Firstly, there's been a lot of Danjo around here lately. She just makes it too easy, providing too much material.
Secondly, I forgot to write your monthly letter last month, as your monthly birthday fell on Christmas Eve.
This month is your third birthday.
[I'm doing one of those silent cries babies do where they arch their back, contort their face and hold their breath, and you're like: breathe, breathe, breathe.]
[Okay, I took a breath.]
People, three is a real thing. It's not made up. I thought it was. I thought you would never be three. And that your terrible twos would last forever. And I'd be cleaning poop out of your underwear for the rest of my life. Or at least until I could afford someone to do it for me.
But, I was wrong. Three really does exist.
And you will soon be living proof.
I don't want to wax too much poetic now. I'll save it for your monthly letter on the 24th or thereabouts. If I remember to write it.
I just wanted you to know that despite your sister upstaging you in real and Internet life, I notice you there, paying attention, reading your books, concentrating on activities that require fine motor skills, entertaining yourself for hours, following directions, abiding by rules, dressing yourself, watching out for your sister, bossing her around, pushing her off of or into things, offering to help cook or clean, memorizing words to songs, remembering to hang up your jacket and put away your shoes, going to bed with out a fuss and sleeping eleven hours, asking me about my day, using kind words, making sure I kiss you goodnight just right.
You're happening right before my eyes. And, rest assured, you're not lost on me. I might hear Danjo, but, trust me, I see you.
Love you no matter what,
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