Marta, Age 3

Dear Marta,
I started writing this post an hour two hours ago. In that time you have had the hardest, most knock-down tantrum you've ever had - one that had me biting my lips to keep from giggling, because you were so serious, so adamant. You're not often like that. Also in that time you refused to be dressed, refused to wear your pajamas that I had picked out, and yelled for me throughout the 10 minutes we were apart (you were getting a bath from Dad).

You're suddenly a handful at times, throwing fits, insisting on your goals, sticking up for yourself with your sister. I'm told this is what a 3-year-old does. I had a 3-year-old once, but she's nearly 5 now and in the two years since her third birthday I've lost most of my memory. Mostly because of the two of you, partly from the dog and partly from my poor multi-tasking skills. So I don't remember how it is to have a 3-year-old, but in the past few weeks leading up to your third birthday, life has been more dynamic than usual.

On the night following your third birthday party (the second of your parties, the one at Grandma and Pop's, on the day before your actual birthday), you called out in your sleep, "I WISH I WAS A GROWN-UP! I WISH I WAS A GROWN-UP!"

It was strange, coming from you. You, my Marta, are our little one, our baby, our sweet kid who loves all things that kids should, like popsicles and trikes and bubbles. It would have made more sense if it had been Berit, who often seems like she's 4 going on 14.

You still look like a baby to me. Your blond hair is thin and turns into ringlets when it's hot outside. Your cheeks are round and pink, and it's hard to tell if you've even grown eyebrows yet. Your feet are pork chops and your knees are square. Your voice is cute and the edges of your words are rounded, baby-like still, so that your reading and spelling actual words (Marta, Berit, Mommy, Daddy, Mosey, Doublestein, Dog, Mimi, Pop, Go, Stop, Tub, Bed) seems even crazier than it is. You know the sounds of every letter of the alphabet and can tell me what any word starts with. You count to 10 in Spanish and French, and to 100 in English with a little prompting. Your favorite number is 22.

You draw pictures of yourself now - you just decided to try, and you should have seen how proud you looked when you did it. You don't use a booster or a high chair anymore (though you probably could and it would be helpful), and you're trying to use big cups instead of sippy cups (though each time you try you get nervous and ask for a top).

You understand, know about, completely get the idea of going on the potty. You know you can, you know everyone else does. You often do - you spend most mornings and afternoons in "big girls." But you get tired of the stress, I think, and by evening you put on your own Pull-Up.

You still run full-throttle and trip constantly. You still need help going up and down stairs. You jump without considering your landing. I should have you in swim class, in ski lessons. I feel terribly guilty about this, but you're in school three days a week now. Three days! For three hours! And you love it. I don't like to push you to do more than that. You're barely 3-years-old.

When I made your bed this morning, I pulled your covers back and found three stacks of books hiding there. When you get up at night you usually tell me when I can leave your room; when you've been comforted and don't need reassurance anymore.

From the day you were born you loved animals, especially dogs and horses, and that hasn't changed. If there's a choice between an animal and a princess story you choose animal - same goes for coloring books, movies, dress-up and playtime. Right now your favorite toys are unicorns and My Little Ponies. You'd quickly choose a big, 48-piece puzzle over watching a movie.

Though your tantrum tonight was over a candy cane, you'd sooner choose salty over sweet, suckers over chocolate, cinnamon toast over any other breakfast. Ninety percent of your hydration comes from milk; you have very little patience for water and don't like juice or anything fizzy.

You and I are buddies. We work well together, and we have fun doing most things. I don't think I push you like I do your sister, and you give me more leeway than she does. She and I can talk about anything, you and I can hang together. It's nice to have two kids with two different relationships. It's especially nice that the two of you are best friends, yet are so different.

The very best thing about you, my Marta, is your sweetness. At your birthday party the other night, when you sat at the end of the table overlooking your pink and purple unicorn cake, with three candles shining, while we sang "Happy Birthday to Marta," you scooped your arms around like you were going to pick up a big teddy bear, then clasped yourself - you were giving everyone there a hug at once, a giant hug with a huge, grateful smile on your face. You are so kind, so loving, so genuinely sweet, and I have to say that age 3 may be tougher on your mama than it is on you, even with the odd tantrum. You are my baby, my Marta, my Little One. You are getting Big.

Love, Mom

This Stay-At-Home Mom, In A Coffee Shop While Her Kids Are At School

How did you get so big?
When did you learn so much?
Did I teach it to you? Or did you absorb it from society? What do you think about it all?

When did you get so tall? Did it happen at school, when I wasn't watching? Is that why you woke up crying last night? Because your bones were growing, again?

Who taught you to talk like that? You sound more like your 6-year-old cousin than yourself these days. You have inflection and attitude and a very teenaged opinion of your ideas. Pardon me while I gently remind you that you are still four-and-a-half.

How is it for you, leaving for school for so long, so often? You seem to love it. It must be difficult, sometimes. These are new teachers, new kids, a whole new school. There is nothing familiar here. How are you so brave? Why don't you worry like I do?

Why are you in school? You should not be ready yet. Are you, really? Are you sure?

You are just a baby. You are a baby. You're a baby, a baby, my baby. Why are you so eager, so jumping-bean excited, to go to school twice a week? How can you leave me? Can you possibly miss me as much as I miss you? Do you miss me at all?

Was I not doing enough with you? Were you bored? Was I not meeting creative and outdoor-play needs? Were our days not stimulating enough for your clever brain? Should I let you go that third day a week, like you want to? Am I starting to let you direct your life, 15 years too soon? Can you believe, can I believe, that in a few months you'll be 3? And yet, only 3!

Do you get frustrated at school? Can you even squirt the glue on your projects? Are you proud that you're there? Do you stand up for yourself?

And still, you are so small. You are only 4 (and that all-important half). I tend to think of you, to speak to you, to expect you to be, like a friend, a sister to my sister and me. Why is that? Is it because my mother did that with me? Is it because you can often act like you're older? You have a way of hanging out in which you go with everyone's flow, being one with the situation, whether it's at Dad's work, shopping with Grandma or mingling in a room full of grown-ups. I constantly have to remind myself that you're small, still.

I am not goofy with you. I don't lean toward the cuddly stuff. You crave these things from me. I watch you do them with others and I make a mental note to do them myself. I don't know why, but I am not inclined to constantly squeeze and hold and snuggle you, as I am to bake and read and play with you. And then you remind me, by becoming overly bouncy or giggly when I hold you, or by asking me to carry you this time. And I feel terrible.

Because I've always got you in my arms. I can't stop cuddling you. I am horrified by the idea that the new baby, the much-wanted and already-so-loved new baby in our family, will steal your baby status, just like I was with your sister when you were on your way. And you did. And the new baby will. Will I have enough room, mentally, for all of that love? Will you suddenly become a mature little kid, like your sister seemed to? Please, please don't. It's not that it's a bad thing to do - your sister handles it beautifully - but you are so good at being a baby. Don't you think? As you are school this very minute, don't you think you are a baby? Or have you left that behind for good?