Three.

A letter to my three year old.

Someday, sooner than I can imagine, I won’t be able to kiss away your discomfort. I won’t be able to ease your mind just by being in your sights. Someday, sooner than I can cope with, my very mommyness will be, at best an afterthought and, more likely, an embarrassment. You claim more of your independence every day. I couldn’t be prouder or more devastated.

Today, you still think that I’m your center. The start and finish of your every day. That dad and I are your only real needs. I want you to always remember that I’m your most important thing. But of course, I want you to forget. I want you to look past me. To what’s next, to what’s yours—and yours alone—to discover and learn and want and understand.

Today, your hands are so small. They grab my face and turn my head if you think I should be focused on you instead of, say, your dad or my dinner.

Your voice is so sweet.

Your belly is so round and soft and smooth.

Your fine hair still bleaches blond in the summer sun.

Your eyes—my eyes, your dedo’s eyes—still look to me for approval and permission and acceptance and validation.

Today, I still clip your fingernails and rub your forehead to make you close your eyes and curl around you for bedtime stories.

I still translate you for the world, because only I can understand what the hell you’re saying, and even that’s only about 17% of the time.

I can still pick you up and hold you to me.

Someday, there won’t be matchbox bulldozers to pull out from between the sheets before I go to bed, or discarded Paw Patrol underpants to trip over.

Or a high-pitched “mommyyyyy” called out from a crib in the next room when it’s time for the day to start.

Or a tiny naked butt running banshee down the hall away from bath time, inexplicably carrying a football nightlight in one hand and hand sanitizer in the other.

But today, there’s today’s version of you and me. The next version will have to come at the unbearable cost of losing this one. But today, there’s three-year-old little you, and little old me.

How I love you, Emmett James.