As we remind each other whenever it suits us, you're now three years old. That's pretty grown up. Yet, it appears that you're not grown up enough to really know that sometimes, the things you do cause me some amount of stress. For example, it's really not fun for anyone except you when you push your little sister when she's sitting and playing by herself. It's also not funny when you take the cookie on which her morning happiness depends and fling it across the room. Or worse, take a bite of it right in front of her. She finds it very confusing when her cookie becomes smaller so quickly. She also doesn't appreciate the constant nips and scratches she gets from you. Of course, I don't need to write you a letter to say all this. We live in the same house. I could just tell you and that would be more efficient. But that's the thing. I have told you. I'm not really keeping count but the number of times I've told you has definitely hit the high thousands. So I'm guessing that's not working. That's why I thought of writing to you. I guess one day you'll read this, and the way you're going, you'll probably still be pushing Tara or tricking her out of her cookies. So this letter will be timely no matter when you read it.
Meanwhile, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to finally understand that you're, regardless of how grown up I say you are, just a three year old. And while you're unbelievable cute and can pull at my heartstrings in a way that nothing else can, you're also very annoying a lot of the times. But that's what three year olds do - they bug their parents. And it's my job as your mother to deal with that. Not your job. So I'm going to take what you throw at me and do my best to smile while at the same time gently yet firmly guiding you towards not bugging me. And you'll just be you. Sometimes annoying, sometimes leading my blood pressure to spike, sometimes really testing your little sister's strength and patience, but always always the most lovable little boy in my world. Deal? Alright then.