An Open Letter to My Three Year-Old Daughter

Dear Daughter,

First of all, you know how much I love you. Not as much as I love your brother, or course, but that’s for you and your therapist to work out in forty years. I also want you to know that I am very proud of you, even though you haven’t really accomplished too much in your brief time on this planet. In time, though, I know you will draw something that I have an outside chance at recognizing, make something out of Play-Doh that doesn’t look like a big snot, and tell a story with the faintest semblance of coherence. But there are just some simple concepts that, God bless you, you just can’t seem to grasp. I hope that by putting them down on paper (or the modern equivalent) I can perhaps think of a way to try to try to make them clearer to you.

Please stop taking off all your clothes and running around the house. I guess I should have discouraged this behavior in you earlier, but it was cute when you were two. Now it’s just disturbing. I also worry a bit about your lack of shame in front of guests. It’s clear they can never tell how to react; “Awwww, a naked little girl!” or “I really shouldn’t be looking at this as it may land me in prison.” I don’t think we should be putting these folks in the awkward position of having to make that choice. While we’re on this subject, let’s talk about bathtub etiquette. Your brother is reaching an age where he needs to take a separate bath, but you have both indicated you have fun in the tub together. That’s totally fine; your uncle and I bathed together until he was fourteen. But I need you to stop grabbing your brother from behind and hugging him while in the tub. Hugging your brother in any other circumstance (while clothed, I mean) is totally fine and encouraged. In the tub, it’s just WAY too Donny and Marie. We live in regular Virginia, not West Virginia, so let’s keep the hands off our siblings. However, there is a possibility that you’re trying to drown him, which, if so, I will not discourage.

There is a certain bond between Jewish fathers and their daughters, but you are not, in fact, the only other human being on the planet. It may come as a shock to learn that there are times when Daddy needs to talk with people who are not you. For example, your mother, your grandfather, or the EMT who’s at our house because your brother elbowed me in the groin again. I’ve asked you in these situations to be patient, and I’ll pay attention to you as soon as I can. I know you have a typical child’s grasp of English, but you have taken this to mean “Daddy will pay attention to me if I start talking louder and faster and perhaps pull on his pant leg and step on his feet.” Inevitably, when I finally break off whatever conversation I’m having with your mother or ask the EMT to wait a minute before he loads the stretcher into the ambulance so I can see what’s so important to you, you show me some toy that I’ve seen 3,000 times before. I understand it’s the greatest thing in the world to you at that moment, but to me, it’s another link removed from the ever-shortening chain that is my sanity.

Also, it is possible to be in a room with me without making physical contact. Sure, you can sit in my lap when we watch TV or I read you a book, but that doesn’t mean you should randomly use my pelvis as a trampoline when I’m not expecting it.

Finally, if I’m talking on the phone while standing up, don’t run straight into me as fast as you can. You see, your skull is about three feet off the ground when you’re standing up. You know what’s three feet off the ground when I’M standing up? That’s right sweetie, my privates! Your short stature insures that your cranium goes DIRECTLY into my johnson with about 300 pounds per square inch of force. As I’ve told your brother, this can be mildly uncomfortable.

Please stop telling insane stories about your friend Rachel. If you are to be believed, your “friend” Rachel has inflicted every form of torture known to man upon you, short of stabbing or shooting you. She’s kicked you, punched you, spit on you, stolen your lunch and snacks, and sometimes – this is the harshest indignity of all – refused to play princess with you. She is also, apparently, some sort of magical ballerina astronaut cowgirl superhero who owns THOUSANDS of toys which are all infinitely better than yours. Here’s the thing – I don’t care about Rachel. When I ask you how your day at preschool was, I don’t want to hear about Rachel’s day and all the wonderful or possibly horrible things she did. If I wanted to hear about Rachel’s day, I’d ride a unicorn to Saturn and ask her while she was making balloon animals and dancing with Nemo and Big Bird. Rachel’s a great kid (even when she gives you a Full Metal Jacket-style blanket party beatdown) but face facts, she’s just a boring little three year-old girl. Just like you sweetie.

Please stop calling everyone and everything a “pussy head.” I have no idea where you learned this phrase, and I shouldn’t have laughed at it the first time you said it. That just encourages you. I believe it was supposed to be “bushy head,” since you sometimes call squirrels “bushy tails.” That would make sense. But it’s really hard for me to explain that logic to the total strangers whom you walk by and yell “YOU’RE A PUSSY HEAD! PUSSY HEAD PUSSY HEAD PUSSY HEAD!” The awkward looks we get when you’re running around naked are nothing compared to the awkward looks of some random couple from Alabama at the Lincoln Memorial who have just been called pussy heads by a three-year old girl with pigtails. When I asked you to stop calling people that, your response was “You’re a pussy face.” While that’s a very snappy comeback for a three year-old, you probably don’t want to piss off the only person who’s usually on your side in our house. Let’s just dispense with that word altogether until you’re around 35. Can we agree to that?

Most of all sweetie, just do me a big favor and turn eighteen. That would be a big help.