Thirty-Three Months

Dear Persephone,

You sure are getting big. I know this because you tell me about it. Constantly. “I’m big. I’m big. I’m so big. I’m too big.” There was a statue of at the New Orleans Museum of Art, a headless Winged Figure, which used to scare you, but now you’re not frightened anymore, because you’re “big.” Yet also, at the drop of a hat, you’ll reverse direction and assert that you’re a baby, and that you need to be spoon-fed or some such foolishness. But more and more, the emphasis remains on how big you are.

Along with getting so big, you’ve also gotten kind of bossy. Last weekend, when we were planning a family outing, you decided that I should not come with you and Mama. You instructed me to “stay home and took.” (That’s your way of saying “stay home and cook.”) Funny thing is, that’s exactly what ended up happening. Now you seem to think you’re running the show here.

Another good example would be your morning routine, which I am ostensibly in charge of. Lately, you insist on wearing dresses. No matter how much I (or your mother) plead, cajole or threaten, pants are out of the question. It’s dresses or a meltdown that would put The China Syndrome to shame.

Of course, we do not give in, except most of the time.

Also this month: We celebrated your 1000th day of life, I taught your how to dip your ciabatta in Parmesan and olive oil, and we visited the local cemeteries repeatedly. You like to look for “fall-down flowers” and put them back in their vases.

You have become a great believer in tape. That’s the way to fix anything that’s broken. Scotch tape. You don’t know about duct tape yet.

A funny thing you said: “I can’t walk because I don’t have any feet.” Also, at bathtime: “The water is playing hide and seek under the bubbles.”

One evening at dinner you actually tried to eat the butterflies on your pants. You said the purple ones taste best.

You haven’t been sleeping so well lately. As the weather’s gotten colder, blankets suddenly matter. You seem to kick them off as often as five times a night. I’m often called into your room to get things straight. We call this “blanket maintenance.” It’s a pain. We tried giving you a bigger quilt in hope it would stay in place, but you insisted on sleeping on top of it for some reason.

Speaking of bedtime, the most heart-rending thing you’ve said to me lately has been when we’re winding up our nightly ritual of book, story and song. In your wee small voice you say: “Protect me, Dada. Stay and stay and stay and stay and don’t leave.”

It’s hard to leave the room after hearing that. But I harden my heart and do it anyway.

Update: As of this afternoon, you are now very consistently claiming to be “almost big.” You’re still little, apparently, but not for long.