You can show me how old you are on your fingers. You know both your addresses. And you've just learned to blow bubbles (though the candles on your cake were blown, with a sigh, 'ffffff').
You are complicated. Playful, articulate and loving. Highly sensitive. With a big personality.
You have an ocean of feelings within. Moody like a teenager, cantankerous like an old man, tender like the kind-hearted soul you are.
Since the heady days of two-and-a-half, you have been testing us to the edges of our sanity with your moods and tantrums.
You love looking after your little friends, your arm often around a shoulder, guiding. Loathe to bathe yourself, you dabbed a serviette about Miss-Not-Quite-Two's chocolate cake smeared mouth at your party. Yes, you're quite partial to little girl friends.
Make believe games are where it's at. You like to play shop-keeper while I change your brother's nappy. Or, 'Mum, pretend you're a whale'.
You love bacon and chips and popcorn, but not the 'bones'.
Sometimes I look at you and wonder how you got to be so clever. You come out with things I have no idea how you acquired. You use words like 'plateau' correctly. Sometimes you call me 'darling'. And the question 'How did you make me?' is on high repeat, with much probing about just exactly how.
For all the ways you spin my heart entirely off its axis, I'm forever thankful.