Dear Charlotte,

I’ve been writing all these monthly letters to your baby brother in his first year, just as I did for you, but it has not escaped me that you are 3 1/2 today. I’ll be interested to hear what you think of these letters one day. After your first year, I have written to you on your birthdays and half birthdays. Maybe I’ll bind them all in a book, a book for you and a book for Henry with his letters.

I feel like we just celebrated your third birthday and waited patiently for Henry to arrive four days later. That was six months ago. You’ve been our spirited 3-year-old, the light in our house and the energy in our lives. We thrive on your enthusiasm.

Charlotte, you have embraced change in these six months. You became a big sister and we became a family of four. You left your daycare to go to part-time preschool. You started gymnastics. You spend more time with me each day and it is amazing!

Some of my favorite things about you continue. You love to learn and read books. Your vivid imagination means you have a tale of your “Imagination Friends” everyday. Tiki, Choo Choo and Maddie fill your mind with endless adventures that help you make sense of your world. You have been really excited about science and geography lately. You will say, “Mama, let’s talk about the sun and the earth!” We got books about the planets from the library for you. You built a garden with Daddy and you always want to check your plants. You are forcing me to brush up on my Spanish as you ask what many words are in Spanish and I honestly do not remember. Mamá no te da vergüenza! (I must confess to you I used an online translator for that one.)

Princesses are still your favorite thing. We watch you in different princess dress-up clothes each day. You can recite “Frozen” word for word and song for song. You want us to act out each scene with you. Princesses are so real for you. They are your heroes and friends. I don’t want to tell you that they are fairy tales. I so badly want the stories to be real for you.

Charlotte you look so grown-up now. Gone is the toddler physique. In its place is a slender, small little girl with bouncing long curls and bright blue eyes. Your skin is so fair and ivory. You get frustrated when I brush your hair and slather on sunscreen, but if I tell you it makes you pretty like a princess, you’re okay with it. I chuckle and shake my head when I have to tell you that. I didn’t mean for you to be a girly-girl like me, but there is no denying it, you are.

You have embraced your role as big sister. I love seeing your developing relationship with your brother. He watches everything you do, Charlotte. You like to make him giggle. You are proud to show him off to your friends. I have to warn you that he will one day be bigger and stronger than you , so you may want to stop taking every toy he wants to hold.

You have had your difficult 3-year-old moments. You told your first lie recently. You have learned about lying and disobeying. You don’t want to be bad, but you are testing your limits, no doubt. Forgive me when I’m not always as patient and kind as I should be. You are only 3 and I forget that sometimes.

You are growing strong and becoming a remarkable little person. It is the honor of my life to raise you and Henry with Daddy. I love being your Mama. I love you, my darling, darling girl.

Love,

Mama

Life got so much more “fetch” ten years ago today. I have loved all the anniversary articles this week. “Mean Girls” is one of my favorite movies, ever. I think people misunderstand this. They think that means I like other teen movies that are dumb and not nearly as clever. I don’t think any of us realized Tina Fey’s incredibly smart movie would be such a cult classic.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said, “Do you wanna do something fun? Do you wanna go to Taco Bell?!” If you’re someone awesome you respond with “I can’t go to Taco Bell. I’m on an all-carb diet. GOD, Karen! You’re so stupid!” If you’ve ever yelled out, “She doesn’t even go here!” We can be friends.

When my husband and I watch “Superbad” I laugh and shake my head. I say “There is no way boys are that stupid!” He says, “Oh yes they are! Guys that age think that if they supply the booze at a party, they might get laid.” It’s funny because it’s true. When we watch “Mean Girls” he says “There is no way girls are that mean.” I say, “Oh yes they are! Girls compliment you to your face and then turn around and talk about you behind your back.” It’s funny because it’s true.

I find myself watching the 3-year-old class and wondering which among them will be the impressionable follower that is a Gretchen Weiners. I don’t think her father, the inventor of the Toaster Strudel, or some future breakfast pastry, would be too pleased to have me speculate about his daughter. I wonder which child is so ditzy she will ask questions like, “If you’re from Africa, why are you white?!” That would be a future Karen Smith, breast meteorologist. It may become apparent in a few years who the little Damiens will be. You know, almost too gay to function. Of course we all wonder how often our child will be personally victimized by a Regina George.

What will I do when I notice my daughter being hurt by the queen bee? What if my kid sadly decides it’s better to be with the Plastics hating life, then outside? As Cady Heron will tell you, being with the Plastics is like being famous. What will I do when my darling daughter leaves the real world and enters girl world? What if my child is the queen bee and is making other kids feel bad? Now kids have the Internet instead of Burn Books. Everyone can read what the mean girls say. What do I do when kids get mean?

Maybe I’ll show her Mean Girls. I teared up the first time I watched it. I know what you’re thinking, “Cried?! At Mean Girls?!” Yeah. When Tina Fey’s character Ms. Norbury says to all the girls in the Junior class, “You all have got to stop calling each other sluts and whores. It just makes it okay for guys to call you sluts and whores.” It struck a chord with me. I remember hating that in high school and middle school. I hated saying “bitches” too. It bugged me. It’s like the girls were saying it because the guys were. Girls disparaged their own gender. It was wrong then, it’s wrong now. I don’t want that for my child. Since “Mean Girls” I have never called another woman a slut or a whore. I mean, unless it’s to say “Boo! You whore!” but, that’s so fetch.

Do you wanna build a snowman? No! Of course you don’t. You’re probably totally over winter like the rest of us. It’s freakin’ spring, thank the Lord. Speaking of the Lord, it’s almost Easter. If you’re like us, your child is totally “frozen” in the springtime. When we’re not watching Frozen with our 3-year-old daughter we’re acting out her favorite scenes. You’ll often hear, “I’m Olaf and I love warm hugs!”

I bought our eggs and thought, “I could make an Olaf Easter egg.” Please note I am not a crafty, DIY type, nor am I an artist so bare with me. Any crafts I do have one criteria: easy, really, really easy.  Here we go:

She was so happy! She grabbed them before I could even wipe the glue, as you can see from this picture. These were seriously so easy. She said, “Maybe we can have Anna and Elsa eggs too!” Uh. Not so easy. I’ll “let it go” at the Olaf eggs.

Yesterday I got off to a great start for a Monday. We were out the door and had grabbed Starbucks for breakfast before my 9:30am Stroller Strides class. No groceries. It was the ‘Bucks or starve. That aside, we were doing alright with just one threenager tantrum and only a little pee through the baby’s diaper on his pajamas. I even pumped milk before we left so I didn’t have to do it while driving when pervy truckers can peer into my SUV. I had all my clothes on behind the wheel. Win!

I told the instructor we had to cut out of class a little early to get Charlotte to gymnastics class. We were making good time and I got half a workout in. I’ll take it. I downed water on the way to gymnastics. Water is my thing now. So. Much. Water. Now that I have time to exercise in my new #SAHM life, I’m gonna take advantage of it. I’m embarrassed to tell you how long it had been since I did actual exercise before leaving my full time job. We’ll just go with “more than a year.”

The water has a downside, no doubt. I wear my baby in the carrier when I have to pee. I wake up in the night when I’m not breastfeeding to pee. I hate even having to say “pee.” It’s so crass. Sorry, but bodily fluids are my life, ya’ll.

Our relatively blissful morning was cut short when after gymnastics I made the risky move to take my brood to Carter’s to round out their spring wardrobes. It was before lunch. We were prime for meltdowns. After my successful hunt for size 3T capri leggings, we headed home. Charlotte started losing it while we were still in the store. We had a bit of a “come to Jesus” discussion between racks of 30% off cargo shorts.

No worries. We got back in the car to head home. We were still hanging in there for a Monday. That is until my bladder was overwhelmed by my excessive hydration. I had to go. Bad.

That’s when they started up, both of them. Henry, the world’s happiest baby, turned on me in my time of discomfort. He wailed and screamed. No bottle that I awkwardly poked in his face by reaching in the back seat would soothe him. That’s when Charlotte decided this was too much for her. She whined and wailed. More bodily fluids. This time tears.

She hollered, “This is ruining my whole day!”

Really?! You ruined my junk for the better part of six weeks when I pushed you out and you want to tell me how this car ride is ruining your day?!

The more I pleaded with my children to calm down, the louder they screamed. We hit every red light. I was sure people in other cars could hear the wails of my discontented babes. I panicked and looked for somewhere to pull off the road, anywhere. Why did I drink so much damn water!? Why didn’t I do kegel exercises to strengthen my pelvic floor like my OB/GYN told me too?! Where is a bathroom!?

I pulled off the only place I could, a small, quiet side road. I threw on the hazards and jumped out of the car. I took Henry out of his seat to try to find out what on earth was wrong with him. I continued to do kegels so I wouldn’t wet my pants. He stopped when I rocked him a bit. I looked around. I couldn’t take it anymore. My sniffling 3-year-old stared at me with teary eyes. I looked around.

I was gonna do it, ya’ll. I was gonna do it. I was going to hold my baby, drop trow and pee on the side of this road because I couldn’t take it anymore. Just then a truck carrying a crew of construction workers came around the curve of my quiet side street. Thank God I still had my pants up.

I put Henry back in his car seat and thought about what I was about to do. I stood with the car door open and laughed until it hurt. My children looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I am. I’m a kegeling, milk pumping, full-bladdered mess who almost flashed a construction crew who could very well know the truck driver who may or may not have seen me pumping milk on another day.

I see my husband’s intensity and mischievousness in my daughter. He is part of her. She is becoming her own person, no doubt. But, I see someone else more often.

During the Winter Olympics he asked her if she wanted to watch hockey, skiing or some other sport. “No, I want to watch figure skating, Daddy.”

Yeah, because that other stuff sucks compared to figure skating. I get it.

The other day I asked if she wanted to go to the toy store before we left the shopping center. “No, I want to go to the store with the dresses. ”

Atta girl.

My parents tell similar accounts of me as a 3-year-old. I make myself sound shallow with the girly-girl tales. It’s more than that. She is so much more. 

Yes, she dons her princess dresses with flair and twirls as all little girls do, but she is playing out a full-fledged saga in her mind. Her tales of heroes, villains and adventures have a beginning, middle and end. She feels the range of emotions of the characters that are real to her.

So like me.

My daughter chatters and chatters, telling us the tales of her imaginary friends who act out scenarios to make sense of her world. She immerses herself in books. She creates a heirarchy among her baby dolls. She seamlessly blends toys into the same make-believe family that never would have existed to others. She gives unique names to every toy.

I did the same.

She delights in being the oldest and the first, a little too much. She can be a bit entitled, but is wracked with guilt when it’s brought to her attention. The agony of disappointing her parents interrupts her need to push her boundaries.

I know the feeling.

She looks the part of a pretty, preppy girl, but occasionally feels the need to show on the outside that she is more on the inside. She has to show the quirk that makes her so unique.

I understand.

It is an equally funny and frightening thing to see your child have so many of your own traits. I watch her grow with hopes that she’ll take my strengths. I only hope that I can guide her through the weaknesses I know all too well.