Frances Friday: Birthday Edition

Dear Sweet Baby:

Today you are three. This means you are growing up.

Quit it. I'm serious.

You are perfect at this age; I want to freeze you just the way you are right now. I could be happy for the rest of my life to come home every day to a little girl who shouts "Mummy!" at the sight of me, then runs joyfully into my arms. I could spend the rest of my life watching you bounce with happiness or excitement, or listening to you chortle and chuckle your way through every conversation, every interaction, as if life were one enormous joke.

"Frances, are you hungry?"

"Ha ha ha! No!"

"Do you want something to drink?"

"Hee hee hee! No!"

"OK. Well, you let me know when you want something."

"Ho ho hee! Ok, Mummy!"

"And can you put your puzzle away, please, before you take out another toy?"

"Oh ho ho ha! Ok!"

You are still the happiest person I know; and the older you get, the more of an accomplishment this becomes. The most charitable word that could be used to describe my general temperament is "irritable" with regular forays into "stubborn" and "critical." Your father, while more phlegmatic, is more prone to complaint than to spontaneous joyful outbursts. Wherever you got this from, it's all your own, and it brings both of your parents limitless joy and continual amazement. How did two such crotchety people manage to produce this perpetual walking giggle?

This is not the letter I am supposed to write on your third birthday. The end of this year was supposed to be a time to celebrate the winding down of the Terrible Twos, according to all the baby books. I am supposed to be drawing a big breath of relief at having survived twelve whole months of tantrums, stubborness and needless tears. We still have not seen a tantrum, and your version of stubborness is to say "No!" once, emphatically, before doing whatever it is that we've asked you to do.

Either I saved a million people from certain death in a previous lifetime, or the world is not fair, because there's no way anyone could ever do anything to deserve this. I am the luckiest mom in the world.

It's true that you have your moments of solemnity, to contrast with the giddiness. For instance, yesterday you objected to a part of our post-bath routine, in which your father and I each hug you, one from either side, and call it a "Frances sandwich."

We did; and at first you laughed, but then grew serious. "I am not a sandwich!" You declared. "I don't want to be a sandwich! I am not a sandwich! I am FRANCES."

"But you look so tasty and delicious," I said.

"No!" You grew teary. "I am not tasty and delicious! I am not a sandwich! I am Frances!"

The temptation to giggle is immense; but I remember the seven-year-old I once was, asking my father not to call me 'kiddo' anymore because I was all grown up. So I won't call you a sandwich. But I don't care what you say; you are tasty and delicious.

You were asked to perform in a talent show for the building employees, held yesterday. All week you have been practicing your song, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And all week I have been toying with you, just a little, by creatively rearranging the lyrics.

"Rudolph the red-nosed snowball..."

"No! Reindeer!"

"Had a very shiny toe...."

"No! NOSE!" Then you laugh, delighted with the opportunity to set your silly Mummy straight on some important holiday issues.

Yesterday morning we dressed you in your green velour pants and red velour shirt with the monkey on it, and your party shoes, and put the pretty flower clip that Marla and Josephine gave you for your birthday in your hair. You love to wear your party clothes; you take such pride and delight in your finery. "Daddy, look at me!" you cried as I carried you to the stairs, all dolled up. "Look at me, Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Look at me!" As if either of us ever look at anyone else. When I was your age I scowled at anyone who called me "cute"; you thrive on it.

I had my doubts about this talent show, but I've been told you carried off your first public solo performance with great aplomb, not only singing on pitch all of the words in the correct order, but giving a little skip jump to signal the end and then bellowing, "Hi Santa! I'm Rudolph!" to the nice man dressed in the red suit. Daddy got it on video, and I can't wait to see it. "And then Santa clapped his hands!" you said. "And everybody clapped their hands. And they laughed. And we sang jingle bells." Daddy tells me he was getting compliments on your performance all day.

Not quite three years old, just over thirty inches, not yet twenty pounds, dressed up with a red nose and reindeer antlers on a stage in front of a roomfull of strange adults, singing a whole song with the right words clearly and correctly and happily--you are my hero, Frances.

Every day you've been demanding to watch the Grinch, the classic cartoon version, and we've been having a tough time holding the line at one viewing per evening. You have that honey/vinegar/flies equation all worked out, and know that all you have to do to make it nearly impossible for us to deny you is to be thrilled with every viewing. "It's Max! Max is happy! Oh no! Max is sad! Poor Max!" (It might be called the Grinch, but as you and I both know, it's really all about Max.) "Did Max fall down? Is the horn better for Max now? Is Max happy? Is that the Grinch? His eyes are blue! Now they're red again! Now they're blue! He got the sleigh! Max is happy again!"

There are a million things I could tell you about how perfect you are. How you sit down on the play mat in the living room, pat a space beside you and say, "Are you coming to my tea party, Mummy?" Then you pour me a pretend cup of tea and forbid me to add any sugar or cream (probably a good thing, considering the diabetes). How sometimes when you sit on my lap you wrap my arms around you and buckle them, "like a seatbelt." The sight of your tiny pink-swimsuit-clad body making a perfect star in the toddler swimming pool, just like the instructor asked you to, while all around you other children your age and older cavort and splash and cling to their parent's shoulders. The way you type, oh god; how you carefully select a letter, announce it, press it deliberately with one tiny finger, and then point at the screen to show us that it worked, look at that Mummy, an F! Your exuberant hugs and contagious smiles and the way you answer almost everything these days with "just because." How advertising confuses you, and when Charlie Brown's Christmas broke for commercials you demanded we skip over them and watch "the next Charlie Brown."

Right now, I am supposed to want to poke my own eyes out with a rusty fork. I am supposed to desperately need a break from your never-ending contradictory demands and constantly shifting moods. I am supposed to be exasperated and worn out. Instead, I want to go home and put you on my lap and keep you there.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl. You are my favourite person, ever.

Yours always,

Mummy.

Posted by Andrea at December 22, 2006 6:49 AM under Frances Friday

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