To Charlotte, On Her Third Birthday

Day 1.

Year 1.

Year 2.

Year 3. (Okay, a couple months shy of 3. I'll get a good shot of you tonight, okay?)

Happy birthday, big girl! Normally, I would've called you little girl, one of my pet names for you, but lately you've insistently corrected, "No, I'm a BIG girl!"

And so you are.

The past 365 days have been delightfully full and busy and lively, little (I mean, big) girl. You can dress yourself, brush your teeth, put on your shoes and socks, and get into all sorts of trouble. You can maneuver around an iPhone vastly better than your nana, get past pretty much any child safety lock, and buckle yourself into your car seat. (Fortunately, you have not yet figured out how to unbuckle yourself.)

Charlotte, you are my pink-and-purple girl. You love pink and purple. Equally. Pink. And. Purple. To you, they are a single, grand color.

You love princesses, sharks, dress up (especially dress-up shoes), raisins, Minnie Mouse, dancing (which simply must be done in a tutu), monkeys, singing, airplanes, ice cream, and macaroni and cheese. You live to drink milk, and I think you're single-handedly supporting the dairy industry.

And, my girly girl, you absolutely adore things that sparkle.

You chat like a big girl now, beyond full sentences into Charlotte-isms, giving us a glimpse of the special way you see the world. To you, a sliver moon is a banana in the sky, twilight is "little dark" while pitch black night is "BIG dark," and morning light means the "sun waked up!" You reprimand the sun for having the gall to shine its light in your eyes ("You're not listening! I said, GO AWAY, Sun!'"), you believe your sunglasses help you see better, even in the dark, and you put your face against Lorelei's hand so you can sharply tell her to not touch you. You refer to pants with cleverly built-in skirts as "silly pants," and when Mommy wears a skirt or dress with any sort of twirl potential, you tell her she's a princess. (Thank you.)

This year, you got (mostly) potty-trained, and you have a full drawer of Tinker Bell, princess, and Cinderella undies to prove it. You bid farewell to your accomplishments when you flush, you brightly congratulate everyone who emerges from the bathroom at home, and you patiently educate Lorelei on how to go potty, carefully describing each very important step (while she watches with rapt attention and awe).

You are fiercely independent, continually declaring, "I DO IT MYSELF!" and good luck to anyone who tries to helpfully fetch you a paper towel or open a lid for you.

And this year, big girl, you became a sister. A big sister. Oh, what a fantastic big sister you are! You genuinely love Lorelei, eagerly picking out her clothes, unzipping her jammies, or getting a diaper (and you are exceedingly interested in her pooping habits). You lovingly cover her with a blanket, assist her bouncing in her bouncer, and helpfully jam a pacifier in her mouth, whether she wants one or not. Lorelei is the first thing you look for when you arrive home, and when you get older and fight like sisters do, I'll remind you how your face lit up with joy each time you greeted your baby sister.

We love you so, so much, Charlotte Marie, and we can't imagine our family without your spaghetti sauce-rimmed smile or sticky hands or slobbery kisses or fabulously snuggly hugs. You're Mommy's girl, Daddy's ultimate soft spot, and Lorelei's idol.

Happy third birthday, Princess Charlotte. We hope your day is magical and enchanting, full of all things girly and, by your request, Cinderella-y.

Bippity!

Boppity!

BOO!