three

You turned three this week, my Poppet.
I look at you and try to remember a world you were not in, and fail. It seems impossible there was a time when you weren't here with us, filling our lives with joy and laughter and outrageous demands.
At three you are vivacious, assertive, confident, imaginative, tender, creative.
You have an imaginary friend called Mary, who sometimes lives in Scotland and sometimes in Germany (where the sun goes when it is not here) and sometimes in the next town and is sometimes alive and sometimes dead. She is always your sister and your friend.
You have a beloved teddy, Baby Cubby, who goes everywhere with you, and is always needing to be re-dressed and tucked up. You have renamed yourself 'Cubby', while your Daddy is 'Big Cubby', I am Mummy-Pirate and your brother is Sprocket-Pirate.
You often break into loud, happy song. The way you so enthusiastically say "Of course," when asked to share or help, always melts our hearts, while the way you say "actually," generally with your hands on your hips, makes us grin.
You toss around words like 'precious', 'fragile', 'delicate', and can name most of the planets, but still have problems with 'I', 'she' and 'them'. "Her would like some of they," is a common sentence. Your stories are long and involved, about fairies and dragons, teddies, pirates and planes.
When you ask me for a 'pretend' story, one I make up, as opposed to one I read to you, you always specify there should be a princess, a yellow doll, a good witch and a naughty witch. Each night you fall asleep in my arms, each morning you wake in my arms. I find it hard to believe there will come a time when you will be too big for this. Your sleep murmurings are enlightening: generally about protecting your beloved teddies and dolls.
You love your big brother and always stick up for him. You are not at all sure that he should go to kindy without you. You play together, squabble together, kiss each other sorry and give each other hugs when you are hurt. You are a pack and you have each others backs.
You love to draw and paint, jump in muddy puddles and kick a ball about. You love dress-ups and op-shopping, beach-play, cooking, running on the trampoline and joking around with your Daddy.
You have a terrible sweet-tooth. Not infrequently you have been found with both hands in the sugar jar or the honey pail. You have also been known to hide away under a table with the butter tub... While you love cooking you find it hard to wait for the bowl to lick, and instead steal the mixture when you think I'm not looking.
You love looking at all my pretty things, jewellery and china, ornaments and clothes. Often your lower lip will come out and you will look up at me. I know what's coming. "My don't have a pretty red box like that," you tell me. And I know you have your sights set on acquiring another of my things. I've already gone through my jewellery box and palmed off all my unmatched earrings and costume bits. Now you have your eyes on the box itself...
You are generous, open, affectionate. Your kisses, hugs, 'I love you's' are bestowed freely throughout the day, flung out like colourful confetti. You say 'thank-you', in tones of wonder, for the smallest things. 'Thank-you, you're the best, mummy!' 'that's super awesome!' are hourly gifts.
Your little tantrums are like summer rain. Your daddy and I have to turn aside not to giggle, and instead distract you.
You are our constant stream of giggles, our song, our wild dance, our joy and our delight.