turning three

Miss C is in the throes of becoming a three year old. As in next week is her third birthday and for a couple of months we’ve noticed a definite trend of three year old-isms showing up in her world. One of these is the “terrible threes” (we don’t have terrible twos in our house—those are the last days of bliss around here) complete with whining and demanding and thrusting her independence to the forefront.

She is also beginning to play more peacefully with her big brother. Oh yes. The two of them can romp around the house in costumes, play hot wheels and any number of other grand things. This has brought peace to our house in a thousand ways. Little B has a playmate, and Miss C is no longer completely "banned" from the big kid toys in his room. She obviously feels so important because of this. She anxiously awaits his arrival home, and if perchance she's sleeping Little B gets impatient for her to be up. And, he is equally willing to play with her things -- even dress up for a tea party in her room, bringing along his favorite stuffed dog.

Another of these traits is the drastic increase in conversation and vocabulary and articulation and comprehension. Suddenly, she understands so much more, can explain herself better, and can be heard easier. Wth more talking, as with any child, certain words bring grand amusement to the adults in the room since they are said with a slight twist. One of the early ones we had trouble deciphering was Baby J’s name; it sounded exactly like an animal she'd been watching on Baby Noah, so some confusion ensued on occasion. Another one was “fork”. Let’s just say we tried to keep her from having to ask for one because, well, it's just not good folks.

There is one, however, that my husband actually tries to get her to say. He is so tickled by this though it can come out in different ways (no doubt in an effort to refine the word). But it was never so clear as when we were having a tea party the other day and I swear I almost had to leave the room.

The word: “Sandwich.” The simpler version is “fan-yich.” Not so bad, really. But, the variation that was so incredibly clear, as heard during the tea party: “My bunny has a fanny itch.”