Who told you it was OK to turn THREE YEARS OLD? I realize that it's part of the natural progression of things, but I feel particularly resistant to it happening to you. You. The cute one. I had no idea what the whole, "yeah but that's my baby" thing meant before this week. I guess with your brother, it didn't help that I was still a baby when he turned three. Your sister, bless her dear heart, is a lot of work. But you. You are my little dancing queen. My tough little joking elf. I couldn't believe it when you ended up with a birthday that is ONE DAY past the cut off for Kindergarten. Now, I'm feeling like three more years of hanging out with you couldn't possibly be enough. I've never known a small child to be so obsessed with opening pistachios. You are articulate, although most people don't understand a word you say. You are funny when I'm about to lose my head over another night of cleaning up a very messed up kitchen. You make poop jokes. And just when I think you are going to sit quietly in my lap and listen to Irish folk music in the park, you jump up, run to the stage, and dance until the chubby accordian player is cracking up. I think you were named well. I always wanted a little girl to name Celia, but I happily give up the dream for a little elf named Zoe. So, as sappy as it sounds, you are my baby. Grow slow. It's hard on me.