Because this blog is kind of like her baby book

Dear Zoey,

It is an incredibly sweet experience to be the mother of a three-and-a-half year old. On the days when you aren't sheer demon, that is. What was it that struck me this weekend about your sudden growth, some kind of newfound maturity? Maybe it was the fact that, once strapped in to less-bulky version of a life jacket, you discovered your ability to "swim" on your own. Hours have been logged in the pool this week, me, trying to keep my hair dry, watching you, engaged in a wildly spastic form of a doggy paddle, shouting MOMMY I AM DOING THIS ON MY OWN! and CATCH ME MOM I'M JUMPING IN! Any trace of fear or clinginess *poof* GONE. You are so incredibly proud of yourself and your newly acquired skill. I am impressed with the fact that you are growing at such a rate to be completely out of the toddler clothing section at Target and fast-blazing your way through the selection of swim wear offered in the young girls section. Please, try not be taller than me before you enter kindergarten.

Or maybe it's your new way of speaking in a manner that is so serious. Everything you have to say to me this week, it's all prefaced with a loud, solemn MOM. As if my undivided attention is required for everything from a request for more fishy crackers to your conveyed annoyance over the fact that Aaliyah was chosen as the light monitor again today and you've never been the light monitor, not once. Last week, on our way home from work and daycare, you informed me that butterflies have the ability to suck lemonade from a glass with those eyebrows on the top of their heads that aren't really eyebrows, and did I know what those eyebrows were called? Antennae? Yes. Antennae exist to get those butterflies their yummy lemonade, and don't bother arguing, because you saw it on a Maisy video and we all know Maisy would never tell a lie. All of this, the random tidbits of information you seem to pull from...where?...delivered with the Serious Voice and those studious brown eyes that dare anyone to argue. You are growing up, forming your own opinions, getting your information from people other than me. It has taken me days to convince you that Xavier at daycare is dead wrong when he tells you every airplane overhead is transporting 'bad guys'. You regard my argument soberly, processing in that little mind who is telling the truth. Finally, after hours of debate on the subject, you decide Mommy probably wouldn't lie to you. And you slip your hand in mine and give me what you think is a reassuring little squeeze, a copycat squeeze you learned from me, the squeeze I give you when you are not feeling so brave or outgoing at all. And you smile. Your smile makes me melt.

Perhaps nothing has marked your transition from toddler to big girl quite as much as your new fascination with Disney princesses. I have always looked on the 'princess mentality' with something like disdain, rolling my eyes (secretly) at parents who refer to their daughters as their little princesses, catering to their every whim. The parents who buy every Disney princess toy on the market and send the subconcious message to their little girls that the world exists merely to serve their needs. You are not royalty. You will not be treated as royalty around here. You had, up until very recently, very little princess gear, save the odd dress-up number and those blasted purple plastic heels you have adored since before you could walk. But, the thing is, you discovered a love for these frilly, silly girls who are all fainting over their Prince Charmings completely on your own. And what I find amazing (and tolerable) about watching your fascination unfold is the way you are totally nonplussed by the silly messages being sent through the movies. Your report on Cinderella (your favorite princess by far) included only details on the 'mean cat' and those 'really, REALLY mean girls who are kind of ugly and ripped Cinderella's dress!'. I find this reassuring.

So, Disney princesses. You study them. You bring me a sheet of stickers and we point to them one by one, you memorizing their names and their correlating movies. We check out the videos from the library that tell their (okay, silly, but kind of cute) stories. You refuse to be impressed by the fact that I can sing nearly every word to every Disney soundtrack produced in the 1980s or 90s. You insist that waving your magic wand and yelling some version of Bippidibopidiboo will somehow transform Henry from cat to carriage. We sent out Cinderella invites for your birthday party, scheduled for later this month when you are less likely to be stricken by some viral illness that renders you feverish and somewhat lethargic. You have proclaimed Jafar from Aladdin to be the worst bad guy by far, and you cover your eyes and squeal any time Lucifer, that badass ugly cat from Cinderella, appears on screen. Your friend Allison passed down a Disney princess kitchen set to you and I thought you would die of happiness and pleasure right at my feet.

Zoey, you are growing and changing every week, in ways that constantly amaze me. I adore the phase you are in, this stage where you are so obviously soaking in information from everyone around you, and yet...you still look to your Mommy for most of the things you need to know. The days where you collect rocks for me and proudly add them to my glass jar on the dining room table are fleeting. You won't always stop random people at the park to tell them how much you love Target and Starbucks. Someday you will stop squeezing my hand in public. By all means, lose interest in the princesses. But never doubt that I love you, and enjoy like crazy watching you develop in to such a fun little girl.