Taking liberties with an almost-three-year-old’s brain

Dear Daddy,

By now I’m sure Mommy has told you all about how I accidentally told her to shut up… and how I accidentally called her a Stupidhead. Did she happen to mention that it was an ACCIDENT? And that it’s all Keetah’s fault for teaching it to me in the first place?? See, Dad, Mommy totally doesn’t get me. When I say, “No, I don’t have to go potty,” she thinks it means, “But, hey, I want to sit on that intimidatingly man-sized toilet, anyway.” And when I say, “Let’s go outside and find some jokes,” she just stares at me like a boogie is crawling its way out of my left nostril. But not you. You put your slippers on and get my jacket for me and we go find jokes. You are NOT a Stupidhead. You don’t try to balance on a soccer ball like a circus clown and slip and hit the coffee table and bust your lip wide open the way that Jonah did. You don’t sandwich your fingers between the toilet seat and its lid and then try to sit on top of it while screaming bloody murder because it hurts so badly, the way that Kyra does. You definitely don’t force me to wear clothing that I absolutely HATE, like Toni, either. You love me. You automatically know that conversation should be kept to a minimum before 6:30 am. You know that affection is a no-no… unless I initiate it, of course. That my pink blankets deserve the utmost respect. That the volume gets turned up two notches when Dora's on. And that taking a washcloth to my face doesn’t have to be an agonizing experience for everyone involved.

Come home soon. But only if you promise not to address that whole ACCIDENTAL issue that Mommy so meanly told you about yesterday.

Hugs and Smooches,

Emma

P.S. Mommy has been pacing and muttering something about how the world is a cruel, cruel, unsympathetic place eating away at time and not letting her visit her favorite blogs in peace. You might explain to her that I’m too young to understand her cynical intimations and prosaic inferences. Just sayin’.