A letter from your mother on the occasion of your third birthday

Dear Clio,

Today you are three years old. I remember, before your sister was born, meeting a couple on a plane who had two girls two years apart, which they said was great because the older daughter couldn't remember a time without the younger. Sometimes I feel this way about you: of course I know that I spent 3 decades without you, before you, yet it's difficult to look back and remember my life without filtering it through you and the experience of having you.

Last year, I think writing this letter was simple. There were plenty of things I wanted you to know, a clear image of who I wanted to remember you being at just-two; but in the past year you've grown complicated, and this writing is hard. Two becoming three is a difficult age; I had heard this as we went in (lots of people said things like "you think two is bad; wait until she's three!"), but it has been an interesting struggle to live through it with you. I have thought a lot about the "terrible twos" and, as much as this phase was labeled by adults because, I suppose, they feel it is terrible for them, I think the truth might be that two is terrible for the two year olds: everything is changing; you are somewhere between being a baby and being a kid. Even the names for this are awkward: you are preschoolers outgrowing your toddlerhood.

You have tested a lot of limits this year. You have shed a lot of tears--real and crocodile--and whined way too many requests, barked a few too many orders, demanded time and again that we do it for you, though you take such great pleasure (ultimately) in doing it yourself. You have been to school, and thrived there. You have developed real friendships, with Lydia in the neighborhood and Haley at school and, especially, Elsie, Isabella, and Deston at day care. You are a loving and caring friend, giving kisses, saying I love you, doing a wonderful job of sharing, taking turns, and following the other kids' lead. You are also extremely sensitive, and while you are quickest to laugh and be in on the joke, you are also quickest to dissolve into something else. A drama queen. Stormy weather.

Last year we sort of missed your birthday as we waited for your sister to arrive. This year, for the first time you are really aware of birthdays (you tell anyone who will listen "My birthday is 5 July") and, I think, you were really looking forward to a celebration. And we wanted to give you one; it was really important to me that it be special, and that it be all for you, and about you. Lately, you seem a little unsure of things where Eleri is concerned, a little threatened, maybe. Sometimes when she does something funny you repeat it many times; or when we play a game you want the same treatment as her, even though she's so much smaller. I hate to watch this struggle, because you are so funny and so charming and so lovely in your own ways; I hope you will remember this, or learn it, and that you will carry that knowledge forward. I wonder how we can help. The other day, we were walking down the street and out of the blue you asked, "Mommy, are you proud of me?" And my heart nearly broke. Of course I am proud of you; you shouldn't have to ask. You make me proud every day, even if you also make me crazy. I think for you and I, these will be the two sides of the same coin: complicated, see? For me, the lesson to carry forward will be making sure you feel my pride in you, right to your very marrow.

We do this thing at night before bed called Big Day, in which I recount for you the events of your day (every day is a Big day for you). It is an opportunity for me to reinforce good behaviors, to praise you for the things you have done well and to give you gentle reminders of the things we'd rather you not do. For some reason, you love this routine; I'm not sure if it's because your days feel so big that you want to remember and savor them before submitting to sleep, or if you are truly just stalling a little more. What sorts of things do we recount for you? Places we go: the aquarium still seems to be the favorite, though you also love the Children's Museum and any playground. Things we do: you can write your name and identify all the letters (you actually signed some of your birthday thank you notes "MOM"), string beads into a necklace, recite many of your books by heart, sing all of your bedtime songs (including big songs like "Maybe" from Annie and "Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music), put your shoes on yourself, help set the table, pour the milk into your cereal, help with your sister. Things we're working on: potty training (you've been diaper free for months now), not sticking out your tongue (this drives your father crazy).

You are learning about independence. Right now this mostly means you resist things we ask you to do; we have to count to 5 a lot to get you going. But it also means you want to choose things. You've been choosing your outfits forever. You often ask me to give you "options," for dinner, for books, for bedtime songs. Often, you choose some secret option number three that I have not listed. That's okay; I guess you just need some ideas to get you going. You say quite often "Mom, it's not a competition," something you must have picked up at day care; you'll often say "I won you" if you finish eating first, or get your socks on quickly. You haven't quite grasped the concept--you were devastated last week when you didn't win a cupcake at Titi's house because you didn't fall asleep first at nap time--and I hate that it is in your vocabulary at all. All of this makes me feel like you are twelve, that other painfully in-between stage. I am looking forward to putting you in a Montessori school full time next year. You can be susceptible to your peers, and I think you will take to the independence required of you in this new environment as you see your fellow students getting their own work, cleaning up after themselves. I am eager to see you continue to discover how much you are capable of. I am thinking about ways that I can help. So often with positive reinforcement you do not resist; you say, so nicely, "okay Mom, I will."

Lately, your dad has taken to calling you Little Bear; your sister, Little Bird. At first I thought this was backwards: you have the delicate sensibility, the love for singing, the tendency to flap your wings or twirl around as if you might like to take flight, while Eleri is grounded, rumbling in her crawl. But you are also ferocious. Protective. You love us fiercly; you continue to mother your dolls, your animals, your sister. You give the gentlest, tiny little kisses on my arm, my knee, my cheek.

I think I struggle with this letter because I, too am sensitive; I, too thrive on positive reinforcement, and I worry that you will read this letter and feel slighted. That you will see only negative here. And maybe because it is not always easy to be honest with myself, I hope someday you will understand that it is my gift to be honest with you. We're struggling a bit right now. But we love you so very much. We love having you in our lives, even if sometimes you make things more complicated, slower, harder. It's our job as your parents, and we take that job seriously. We love the joy you open us up to; we love watching you take pleasure in small things, like your birthday cake with the pink icing (half way through your piece, you told us, "and when I finish this, I will ask for more.") When you laugh, it's infectious. When you twirl around in a skirt, I want to be three, too. Your dad and I often catch each other's eye over your head and smile at something you have said, or done. Let's focus on that.

Happy birthday Clio.
I love you so much,

Mom