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Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Monthly Newsletter: Month Thirty-Seven. And a Half.

Dear Mia,

What a beautiful little girl you’ve grown up to be. Y’know . . . when I say “grown up,” I mean relatively.

We’re excited that you’re almost 100% potty trained. I mean, you are potty trained except for the occasional early-morning mishap. Actually, just this morning while eating your paternally mandated mix of Cheerios and Cap’n Crunch (with milk and by yourself), you told me that you’d wet your pants. I looked for a puddle under your booster seat, and then something in the seat after I’d picked you up. Nothing. And then you pissed like a racehorse when you got on the toilet.

Maybe you like toying with us. Like when I went to get you up a week or so ago and, in the dark of your room, you kept insisting on handing me something pinched between your little fingers. The first time, I asked you what you were giving me and you didn’t answer. Then you did it again, and I asked again, and you said, “Booger.” Ah, there’s daddy’s girl.

Of course, you’re also your mother’s daughter. Like when we signed you up for pizza on Fridays at your pre-school, and you stopped eating it. Pizza. What kind of American kid turns her nose up at pizza? You’d really better enjoy it, because when you get to middle school, it’ll be the best meal you get. Seriously. I'm talking all meals.

We recently took you to a birthday party where you had the opportunity to ride a horse. Twice! And go on a hay ride. We had to negotiate to get you to stop screaming and asking for another ride, and I think part of the trade off was that you’d eat no real food and have a piece of cake instead. Making sure to stick your fingers in the frosting and lick them. I can’t remember offhand how hard it was to get you to bed that night. But I’d put my money on "very."

Oh, and how about that playground at Tom Brown Park. It’s only a few minutes from our house! Yeah, it was finished earlier this year and cost us City of Tallahassee taxpayers a gadzillion dollars. Or something. Anyway, you really enjoy running around in the area designated for kids over 5. Almost as much as I enjoy chasing you. (Though certainly not as much as Michelle enjoys sitting in the shade and watching me chase you.) Of course, then comes the time when we have to coax you away from the playground and back to our un-fun home. Whether you’ve been at the playground for 30 minutes or 30 hours, I’d imagine your reaction would be the same: “Nooooooo! I wan’ play for minutes!” And then hysterical crying. Heavy on the snot.

All in all, your first three years have gone fairly smoothly. Much better than I would’ve expected when Michelle first said she thought she might be pregnant . . . which was just days after I’d casually mentioned maybe she should go back on the pill. And much better than when you spent more time screaming and involuntarily kicking your legs at Heaven. Because, y’know, that really sucked ass. We’re glad you’re not a little baby anymore. Yes.


Daddy (who has no original ideas left, so we're now borrowing from Dooce)

More photos here.