You came into the world three years ago. You came quickly, immediately giving me the gift of your birth story, which I will cherish more than any other gift and hopefully remember until I am thick into dementia. You came smiling. You came chunky. You came with a full head of spiky hair.
And now here you are. You are three. You started practicing for age three at about age two and three quarters. By this I mean, you started trying to do everything completely by yourself, meeting any unsolicited help with screams of protest. Ah, three. It is a long year. Also, it is a year of showing the world that you are no longer a baby. You clearly need to teach Mommy that you are not a baby. You can speak in full sentences. You can almost ride a bike without training wheels or assistance from me. You have your own ideas and your own taste. You don’t need me to feed you. (Though sometimes you still request it.) You’re here! You’re Trucker! I’ll get used to it.
You sing all of the time. Real songs, made up songs, made up songs with words that are made up. You also love to dance. You are not a big fan of food. Mostly you like meat. Which is what I liked to eat when I was pregnant with you. You also have an unwavering love for chocolate milk. I realize now how the younger child gets spoiled. There’s something about knowing that there will be no more babies that makes a mom want to baby that last one.
Of course, you are still in love with trucks. You have branched out to airplanes and hovercrafts, tractors and motorcycles. But nothing makes your heart quite as happy as a shiny big rig or a car carrier loaded with cars. Your favorite book right now is Richard Scarry’s Cars and Trucks and Things That Go. I love that we can’t go to bed without looking at the pickle car or looking for Goldbug on at least three pages.
Oh, and you are a charmer. You got your first crush at your uncle’s wedding. A fourteen-year-old niece of the bride became your princess. You danced with her and her mom all night long. Even though the wedding was weeks ago, you still look up at me at times and tell me that you are going to dance with her tonight. She liked you back. She said that she was going to go back home and tell her friends that she met a cute boy from New York.
I love you, my sweet boy. Thank you for teaching me to face the day with a song.