Three.

Big enough to read her own story “myself”,

Big enough to dress herself “myself”,

Big enough to pout, at length, about what she’s wearing

(And so yet another pair of footed tights becomes footless).

Still unwilling to part with her precious binky collection,

Still performing the occasional toddler meltdown with drama of theater proportion,

Still small enough to be scooped up like a baby,

But holding up three sweet little fingers, just the same.

One. Two. Three.

As I count them, I realize that the only “two” thing about her,

Is her brand new pink two-wheeler,

And it’s difficult to believe she’s already three enough to ride it.