Memo to Emmy: 30 Months

Dear Emmys,

See how these are getting spaced further and further apart?

That's because of the time it's taking me to dye my roots from gray to black because you are now officially "Daddy's Little Girl." That phrase was invented for you. I'm OK with the whole, "Where's Daddy?" when I come in to say good morning and rescue you from the crib. It only stings a little now.

But it's not fun being on the other side of the looking glass. You were Mommy's BFF from age 0 to 2. Now it's Papa Bear and Baby Bear 24/7. With a few, "I love you too Mama Bear"'s thrown in. It's so crazy even the punctuation doesn't know what to do. 

Even though your love for me has waned a bit, mine for you is waxing large and in charge. You talk so much now. From the moment you wake up and hop out of your big girl bed, we hear the open and shut of the underwear drawer, the loud BANG when you open your ghetto rental bedroom door, and then into our room with a, "Good Morning! I have my underweaaaar!" That's the same way Daddy used to wake up in college!

I asked you what you wanted to be when you grow up, a doctor? No. A veterinarian? No. A garbage truck driver? No. An animal trainer? No. Finally I asked the open ended question you were waiting for, "Well then Emmy, what DO you want to be when you grow up?" And you said, "A bear!"

We don't have a clue where your obsession with bears began, or where it will end, but it came at the expense of Ming Ming, whom you used to identify yourself with. I was Linnie, Daddy was Tuck, and you were Ming Ming from the Wonder Pets. But now it's the bear family and anytime we call you a crazy kitty or a silly goose or a Scooby Doo, you either say, "I'm not a _____, I'm a bear!" Or you say, "I'm Emmy!" Like clockwork. 

Ever since you got into your big girl bed, some of my favorite times with you are at night, lying next to you reading you a minimum of three books. Your little soft face looking up at the books and pointing out everything that's happening and running a side commentary. I love your little profile and nomming on your sweet cheeks.

Another big surprise--just how social you've become. You'll say anything we ask you to, to anyone. And when you're feeling especially magnanimous, you'll just introduce your stuffed animals to strangers at the mall, "Hiii. This is Rory! My lion!" We took you to the Moon Festival and when it was time for the kids parade on stage, you marched up there, waved at the crowds below, and even danced over to your dad on the sidelines. If only he had pushed the "stop" button instead of the "pause" button, I would have the World's Cutest Dancing Toddler video on my blob right now.

Still, you don't seem to recognize the fact you are a kid. When other kids get too close or do kid things, you look upon them the same way we observe animals in the wild. With caution, at a respectful distance. Part time pre-school is in your future, if only to help you separate yourself from the Safety Triangle that is your dada, mama, and Asian Grandma. 

You seem to be OK with the idea of a little brother or sister, and you've named the baby "Babius." It's part baby, part Prius. Or part baby, part genius. 

Baby Bear, we love you and your imagination, your humorous fake laughs, your ability to sing Rihanna songs, your big squeezy hugs wherein you use your arms and your legs to hold on, your un-ending questions about street signs when we're driving, "What that sign say? Why?"

You're full of surprises and almost able to hold your own in a conversation. What more could I want in my firstborn? (Perfect SAT scores and a scholarship to a top tier college, that's all.)

TIME magazine says all parents have a favorite, so I'll just admit it now. Emmy, you're mine. Babius, you have some catching up to do. But don't worry, I don't expect anything fun from you in the first 6 months.


Mama Bear