Memo to Odessa: 42 Months
So we sort of skipped like 7 months of memos. Odessa, if we're already this lazy with a second child, I'm not really sure what we'd do with a third one. Despite your promises that you'd "feed the baby and read to the baby and put the baby to sleep" but "not change the baby's diaper," I'm not convinced you really want to be a middle sister. Although you do seem to love the idea of being both a big sister ANDDDD a little sister.
In any case, this post is about you, not an imaginary third baby. There's nothing imagined about you. You're a solid, confident, commandeering little person. How someone so small talks so much and is so stubborn and yet heart-melting at the same time, with alternately frowny fishy hands-on-hippy attitude that instantly flashes into contagious giggles. You have this distinctive voice and laugh and cadence to your speech that is uniquely Odessa. Like you smoke cigars at night after we read to you. Croaky, throaty, Lauren Bacall if she were a 3 year old Marvin with sass. And you are not shy about laughing at your own jokes and playing in your own world.
You've taken over the guest room. Your wooden blocks and Duplo farmhouse bricks are everywhere. But you can seriously build. Doll beds, bird houses, crocodiles, trains, bridges, people, even a zipline. The imagination is Trumptastic. You tell these amazing stories about what everything is and what it does and who lives where and what they do there. I so enjoy that it's your world and I'm just living in it.
You definitely didn't get any architectural skills from me. When I'm upstairs "helping," you really just want me to watch you build build and watch you nae nae. Which thrills me because building stuff gives me panic attacks. Like I just don't come up with things in configurations. I put a square block on another square block and then hives break out. #sonotanengineer
However, I may have passed other traits onto you. Bossy isn't the right word, but it's true you make your opinions known, sharply and unequivocally. "Don't touch that, it's mine" is your first reaction, threat level red, to any strangers, large or small, who get too close to something you're fond of. But as soon as we remind you, "Hey Odessa, you can share x with X," you're completely magnanimous like of course you're going to share, it's the greatest thing to share, who said you don't share! And your evil staredown transforms into a sharing is caring helper smile. You're like the T. Rex from Jurassic World. Adapting and clever with short little arms.
You had to wait forever to go back to pre-school, a good 3 weeks after Emmy started 1st grade. Those weeks = torture. You couldn't wait to get back to classes, if only to play by yourself with the ponies. I've watched you a couple times out in the wild. I have seen you talk earnestly and convincingly to a gang of three boys who then turned around and decided to do something else at the playground. Your teachers are the best, they did an awesome job with Emmy, and it seems every student that comes out of that school is a great little bon bon, well socialized and just a happy camper.
But one thing your dad and I can't quite figure out is why all the teachers are so vague in describing what you do and what you're like all day. They have always told us the same things about you and Emmy. "She's wonderful. She's such a good girl. She's a delight. She's a joy." It's like a Jedi mind trick. I swear they are purposefully broad and general because they know we are Silicon Valley parents and if they give us too much detail about our kids, we will spiral out of control. Specifics are like the gateway drug. Tell a tiger parent an observation about his/her 3 year old and suffer a lifetime of addiction and rehab in the form of probing questions, Kumon worksheets, and more assessments. The demands never cease! Hence the "Your daughter is great. She's doing great. Her? Great!"
Heaven forbid anyone recycle a single scrap of your art. Even if it's on scratch paper and you haven't seen it for months. If those crafts float anywhere near a bin in your line of sight--you will protest #artlivesmatter. We can only trash that stuff at night and even then, we know it's at our own risk.
You're majorly into smartphone photography. If only I looked good when someone 3 feet tall shot up at me, I'd have so many awesome portraits. Who doesn't love looking like a giant with a double chin? But hey, you're already better at taking pictures than Daddy so I can't complain. We joke that a photo of me with you and Emmy that I didn't take myself is like a blue diamond.
Speaking of blue diamonds. Blue is your favorite color. You love to pretend you're a dog and Emmy's a cat. You give the best kisses and hugs. You have a grumpy streak. I see so much of who I think I would be as a kid in you and so much of who your dad is in your sister. Genetics is bananas. (Are? Plural or singular?) I love your wily ways and how you use Dubsmash as a verb, as in "Let's Dubsmash that Mommy." Indeed, we have a lot of fun ahead of us lil Odessa.
Love you my darling,
Mama and Papa
PS You pretty much only go by Odessa now. You don't seem to like Dessy. "I don't like Dessy. I'm Odessa."