Memo to Emmy: 39.5

Dear Emmy,

You are a real sassafrass. You've suddenly become aware of the concept of free will. As in, you will do what you feel free to do. Until Mommy loses patience and starts counting or begging or bargaining with you to PLEASE COME HERE SO I CAN FLOSS YOUR TEETH ALREADY.

And the whys are in full effect. You ask why everything is the way it is, and even when we come up with Einsteinian answers, your follow up question is another why. You should be the next member of the NBC Bay Area Investigative Unit. They don't say "please" either, so you already have that going for you.

You completed two weeks of summer school, with only a few teary episodes. Nothing melts my cold little heart faster than when you admit you "cried a little bit, in the middle, because I missed my mommy and daddy." Just the way the edges of your little mouth curl down into a tiny frown when you re-tell that story forces me to squeeze you into a big bear hug every time. 

Speaking of hugs, I was holding Dessy when you walked by and kissed her little arm, totally unprompted. Then you gave her another drive by kiss on the arm. Either you're drinking our 'sisters are the best' Kool-Aid or you are starting to love your little sis on your own terms. (Not enough to give her the red lollipop favor from your friend's birthday party, but enough to at least pick up the yellow one for her.)

Your weekends are filling up with preschool birthday parties galore. It's really raising the bar for what we're supposed to do when it's your turn. I'm feeling a weed-pulling, sweeping up the backyard themed event. 3 year olds still love to "help." Only "helping" so often turns into a broken jar of olives splattered all over the kitchen tile and with sour juice seeping into the grout. 

I was cleaning out my work voicemail when your little voice came on from a message you left me 7 months ago. You sounded like such a teeny baby with your "When are you goan come home Mommy?" It just reminded me how quickly you've changed in such a short time. Suddenly you're no longer a single sentence cockatiel repeating short phrases. 

Example: a recent conversation with your dad.

You: Can you fix this frog Daddy? I pulled off the toe. (It's a rubber frog the size of a quarter with tiny toes the size of sprinkles.)

Your dad: Sorry Emmy, I can't. It's too small.

You: Can you please fix it?

Your dad (sensing the impossibility of even gluing the microscopic toe back on): Don't worry about it Emmy. He has many other toes.

You: Can I have a piece of tape?

I love the logic and how quickly you switched gears. You're an American, not an American't!

As I write this, you're on the first day of a mega daddy-daughter trip to Tahoe. 6 days! 5 nights! You were so excited to pack up your stuffed animals and books and one Calico Critter house full of furniture and microscopic accessories. I told you I'd miss you so so so much but Dessy would keep me company. You liked repeating that to me, "When I go to Tahoe with Daddy, Dessy will be home to keep you company." 

I'm a little worried that this trip will permanently cement you to your father; you're already his shadow and always underfoot when he's home with you. I understand how you feel, I love him that much too. He's big and fun and makes you laugh. He's pretty awesome like that. This is the longest we'll be apart since you were born. It's really quiet with just Asian Grandma and Dessy here. But I know you're having the time of your little life, so I'll look forward to hearing your stories and seeing the photos of your first big trip. 

I love you little Sassafrass.