Dear Kelly Belly,

10 Weeks at school, and you’ve already earned quite the reputation…the word I hear time and time again from your teachers, your specials teachers, and honey, even the school secretary stopped me to tell me you are…HILARIOUS.   It’s not anything so specific, as much as you seem to have an uncanny comedic timing, paired with big brown eyes and that bright hair…when you say something funny, it comes out as rather unexpected.  You are your own version of Shirley Temple, or Pearly Pimple, as she’s now called in our house.

Your favorite joke inevitably involves the word “poopy”.  We’ve banned you from all bathroom words, which worked wonders until you realized you were allowed to say poopy if you were on the potty. We’ve inadvertently created a poop monster.  You’ve missed baths, dinners, and countless moments of play just sitting on the toilet, making up stories involving the word poop.  We missed MOST of your Aunt and Uncle’s rehearsal dinner.  MOST OF IT KELLY.  I missed the speeches.  The dessert.  I get to sit in countless bathrooms, until you are satisfied with your use of the word POOP.  At least you force me to stay outside of the door.  You shut bathrooms doors and yell, “I NEED PRIVACY”, and then you proceed to loudly tell stories involving poop, which someday you will understand, is more embarrassing than people actually watching you POOP.  But cute for now, nonetheless.

Sara taught you the word booby last month.  So far, Sara and I have impressed you with the belief that there is absolutely no perfect time to say booby.  I can see the pressure building up inside of you.  It is sure to pop out an a very inopportune moment.  I can’t wait to get that call from school.

Speaking of getting calls from your teachers….yes, well, KELLY, I would like to stop getting those.  You are 3.  THREE.  It doesn’t bode well for your academic future when the teacher calls start now.  Apparently, we are lacking in a bit of self-control, which is throwing your Daddy and Grandmommy into fits of laughter.  Daddy spent most of his elementary years bringing home notes that read, “Gregory fails to exhibit SELF-CONTROL.”  Don’t get me wrong, you are a great kid.  Everyone loves having you in class.  But there is a certain pal you have been banned from sitting near, as you simply can’t stop giggling in her presence.  You can play and do crafts, but when it is time to listen, you are separated, and this development has not met with your approval.  I want you to know that throwing fits doesn’t change the story at home, and I’m hoping now, you have gotten the idea, that it won’t work at school either.  You’ve promised no more fits at school, and I’m holding you to that one.  You made this giggly non-attention-paying bed…now lie in it sweetie.

Your favorite past time hasn’t changed; you could watch movies morning, noon, and night.  You don’t actually “watch” movies.  You dance around and act out the scenes on the screen.  And it really has to be a “movie”.  You’ve never begged to watch Mickey Mouse or Dora.  But pwease, pwease, pwease, wet you watch a MOOOVVIIIEEE.  You ask everyone you meet, “What is your favorite movie?  Mine is Peter Pan and Cinderella.” Being a huge fan of the cinematic arts myself, I do let you watch a movie every few days.  I doubt it’s turning your brain to mush, and who knows, you might be the next Sandra Bullock (without the sleazy tattooed cheating husband please).

I’ve cut your needless screaming in half by enforcing the new rule, “If you’re crying, you had better be bleeding.”  If I can’t get you to use your words, at least I can drop the drama meter around here.  Screaming is your fall back, and although it never gets you anywhere, you seem unwilling to try a new strategy.  I know how frustrating it is to be the youngest.  I know how hard you work to keep up.  You’ve almost done it too well, because most people treat you like you’re 5.  You fake it well.  I overcompensate by babying you when we’re alone, but part of that comes from my fear that you are growing up too quickly.  I can prove it: you’ve informed me that you aren’t speaking to a certain little boy in your class because he did not adequately compliment you on your new Halloween skirt.  Which you felt looked great, even though Sara stole your favorite princess shoes, thereby messing up your style.  Your words, not mine.  These are not conversations one should be having with a 3 year old.  And I don’t care how many mornings you swear up and down you are 4…I’m NOT buying you a booster seat UNTIL YOU ARE ACTUALLY 4.  Stop asking.  I’m not budging Missy.

What a ride, sweet girl.  Yesterday as we left our 1000th errand, you hugged my cheeks and said, “Mommy, I’ll make you a deal.  Let’s go home, split a donut, watch Max and Ruby and cuddle on the couch.  I make really good deals.”  That you do.  And that’s exactly what we did.  Spending the day with you is like standing in warm sunshine…I just can’t seem to get enough.

Basking in your rays,

Mommy

P.S. This post was written a few weeks ago, and placed into draft while I edited pictures.  In the meantime, the Booby School Incident occurred.  If I write it, it will come; and so it did, on the morning of Grandparents Day, just to make it spicy.  Kelly was tasked with making a puppet that looked like her, and when it was done, her teachers called me in from the Meet and Greet desk in fits of laughter.  You can’t SAY the word booby, but you can glue them on your puppet, and let a school full of grandparents know….BOOBY, BOOBY, BOOBY!