Hi, Emmett. It hasn’t even been a week since you turned 3, but already you seem like such a big boy. You’re mastering the potty, at least at day care, where you’re now in “the 3s” with Kendra and your friends David and Oscar. You love scrambled eggs and ham for breakfast, and you’ve taken recently to fruit-flavored yogurt, too. You ask us each morning whether it’s a “Kids’ Deeko” or a “Jabba House” day (you prefer Jabba House days).
When you’re done with a meal, you let us know by lifting your shirt to expose your belly, pointing to it with a free hand to show us how full of food it is. Your favorite game is Chase, which — fittingly — entails me chasing you all over the yard while you squeal with excitement each time I catch you and scoop you up in my arms. You laugh wildly whenever I try to get my Daily Nibble, which is when I cradle you and try to get at your neck with little kisses. You resist and resist until, at last, you catch your breath, look up at me, and say, “OK, one nibble!” I agree, of course, and commence nibbling, to our delight.
I’ve been thinking lately, Emmett, about how different your early years have been compared to your sister’s. I wonder how this time will shape you. You’ve had to share your mom and dad in ways Ava never did. Frankly, I believe this has been a detriment to you and to your parents, though you’re unlikely to ever be aware of it, having never known any other way. But I’ll know, and I’ll mourn the loss on your behalf. Your mother and Grandma GG insist that I favor you over your sister, but I resist that view. Which isn’t to say I don’t think you probably deserve a little specialized attention. Life as the second child can’t be easy.
Fact is, you’re a confident little guy. Like your sister, three finds you asserting yourself in new and often very, very frustrating ways; you don’t always use your listening ears. And you’re still not fully on board with the “hands aren’t for hitting” thing (your Grandpa Chuck’s gift of a wooden pirate cutlass three days ago hasn’t softened you up any). You’re bright, and funny. You’ve named your two favorite stuffies Sweet Stuff (Sweet “Tuff”) and Toothpaste Tube. You still drop an S now and then and commit other insanely adorable lexical mashups. The other day you walked out the front door and reported a tinky pell in the air. Like your mom, you’re adept at finding tinky pells.
I’m going to miss my Little Little when you’re gone. The other evening, when it was bath time, you came into the bathroom and removed your shirt, shorts, and diaper all by yourself, then placed the potty ring on the toilet and scrambled atop it, all before I could even offer a hand. Once you were in the tub that night, I washed your tiny body especially slowly, newly aware of how soon you’ll be gone. Before long, you’ll leave your three-year-old self behind and move on to some developmental stage we can’t yet guess at. I promise I’ll love you then — and always — just as much as I do now. Happy Birthday, Littles.