Bama woke up this morning to Mister and me wishing her a happy birthday. Confusing? Maybe, after all, we'd sung happy birthday to her on Saturday in the park. Yesterday, she had a happy birthday fête at school with her classmates singing happy birhtday. How many birthdays does one girl get?
We asked her how old she was. Two! she answered. Nope, we said, You're three!
Wait for it, her mind is blown. THREE?
She approaches three with clarity: She knows what it is to be kind; she recognizes it in herself and in others. She asks questions: Why is her name Isabel (That's what her parents named her)? Is he brown (she navigated male vs. female and has moved to race)? She comes with silliness and good humor: rhyming songs, making up new versions of the ABCs.
She's still sweet, that sweet baby I held on my lap.
She's still the girl who looks at the world with open eyes, studying, thinking, absorbing. She takes it all in. When she was a baby, someone said she didn't laugh enough. She's not a pony, I said. 
The pretzel that ate Bama. She wanted to see horses, so we went to Central Park on a bitterly cold day, one of our first after moving. I bought her a giant pretzel, then we went to watch the horses.
Her Christmas scooter. The helmet still doesn't fit, but she's bigger, more balanced now so she rides it rather than walks it. But she was determined to try it out when we gave it to her.
Getting her funk on at the gay pride parade.
She is magical.
She will eat New York.
Pulling her weight. Her choice.
First day of school. Her family and friends photo necklace helped her through the day, but so did how much she loves the school and her teachers.
Maker Faire. She loves to draw. She loves her new guitar. She loves to get her groove on. She loved the experiments at Maker Faire.
Baby Tiger. Rawr.
