Dear Charlotte,

You hit thirty-eight months last week and the biggest news I have to offer you with regards to milestones is that THIS is the month you started preschool.

This month, you started attending a local French immersion preschool two mornings a week.  You LOVE it.  You never want to leave when I come to pick you up and you quickly memorized the days of the week and their order (in both languages) for the express purpose of figuring out whether or not you were going to preschool today.

Your French has also taken off.  You speak it more frequently at home, ask me to read French books or sing French songs more often, and consistently respond to questions and conversations without any problems.

Witnessing your acquisition of a foreign language feels a little bit magic to me, like watching a wizard banish a dragon or seeing a fairy flit by in the woods.  I’m not sure I have ever enjoyed anything as much as I have enjoyed watching you pick up a second language.

Your most recent English developments are better described as residing firmly in the “exhausting” category.

The first development is an inexplicable obsession with asking “why?”...even when the answer has already been provided to you multiple times or when the question makes no sense in context.  It is driving me crazy, child.  CRAZY.  Someday when you are fifteen and you’re wondering why I’m making your life so miserable, I just want you to know that the simple answer is this: I burned out all of my brainpower answering twelve billion senseless questions a day when you were three, and now I’m only operating on four brain cells.

The second development is a sudden desire to insert yourself into all conversations in your vicinity.

At first, this was admittedly rather adorable.  When your father and I were chatting at the end of the day, you chirped “LOOK AT ME!” or “WAIT! STOP! WHAT ARE WE TALKING ABOUT?!” repeatedly until we ended the conversation and reverted to topics you brought to the table.

Most of the topics you bring to the table at this age are, if I’m being honest, not exactly great conversational pieces.  You like to tell us stories that are blends of your life and the fluff (elves, griffins, and sorcerers, oh my!) we generally fill your head with.  You like to tell us about memories.  You like to tell us about how this one time, when you were eating, you saw a squirrel, and it jumped between trees, and it shook the branches, YEAH, IT SHOOK THE BRANCHES MOMMA!

Your father and I listen to these stories because we believe that if we listen to the little things that matter to you now, the little things you want to share with us, then when you are older and the issues are greater you will be more likely to talk to us.  We believe that listening to these little things teaches you that you can trust us and creates a habit of you running to us when things are on your mind.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not mind-bogglingly frustrating to listen to the fourteenth rendition in five minutes of “I saw a squirrel and it jumped between trees and it shook the branches.”  I’m sorry, kiddo.  I love you more than the moon and stars, but I just can’t handle the squirrel stories.

Over time this has become increasingly irritating.  We’re no longer dealing with cute twenty-second interruptions.  Now, we’re dealing with a child screaming “LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING!” followed by a ten-minute one-sided discussion about train toys and squirrels.  We live in a world of fragmented conversations punctuated by conversations directed by someone who still needs reminding to keep their finger separate from their nasal cavity.

It’s like you’re TRYING to make me lose my marbles.

Still, overall this past month has been extraordinary and your father and I are thoroughly enjoying this time with you.  Watching you grow is always a source of joy to us.

We love you more than bears love honey, (and everybody knows that’s an awful lot),
Momma and Daddy