Here's what a newly 3-year-old Wog is up to:
The Wog loves school and her teachers, Miss Suzie and Miss Emily. She has a new friend named McKenzie, with whom she plays a daily game involving a protective Mommy Kangaroo, an imperiled Baby Kangaroo, and a vampire named Thaddeus. (Thaddeus is a little boy in The Wog's class who she describes alternately as "bad" and "the cute little boy.")
The Wog and her friend Lily are the youngest girls in their preschool class, and they lean on each other. The Wog demands attention (we'll soon acquaint ourselves with the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf--out of necessity as opposed to pleasure: this is clearly a lesson The Wog needs to learn) and goes from 0 to panic in three seconds flat; she does not take "no" for an answer. Lily is reserved and, I suspect, a more-than-occasional voice of reason. They are the yin and yang of preschool life. Some afternoons when I arrive at the playground to pick The Wog up, they are both perched patiently (Lily) and impatiently (The Wog) on the little merry-go-round together, waiting for someone to decide to push them.
The Wog loves everything pink. When presented with anything--whether it be an instrument in music class or a pair of pants--her immediate response is, "Can I have the pink one?" (This involves the unwavering assumption that a pink one exists.) If she could wear her pink leotard every second of every day, she absolutely would.
The Wog loves to declare things "fabooooolous" and "perfecto." She herself is both of these things. Her favorite expression continues to be, "Yea. That's the whole idea."
It is absolutely critical to The Wog that other children know, acknowledge and respect their place. It is not unsual for The Wog to turn to a child quietly waiting behind her in line and declare, "It's not your turn next. It's MY turn." (This is one of the times I remind myself of my mother's sage advice after I repeated one such story about The Wog--to never be embarrassed by my children.)
The Wog is very generous to creatures great and small, except when she is attempting to poke Piglet with a fork. She is particularly obsessed with my parents' dog, Maggie. She adores Baby Doodle, and insists that he be in all her photographs. Earlier today she was delighted to discover that she could pump lotion from its dispenser; she asked if she could put it on my arm. When I directed her to rub it into The Doodle's leg instead she anxiously responded, "But will it hurt him?" The lotion sometimes stings her eczema, and The Wog--at 3--can genuinely (if not consistently--see fork-poking, above) show empathy.
The Wog's favorite people include Minnie, Pop-Pop, Grandma, Grandpa, and all people resembling grandparents. She also adores her Aunt MB, and all of her great-aunts on both sides of the family. The Wog hasn't yet met a person (or bowl of ice cream) she doesn't like.
The Wog goes to sleep in her own bed every night, but wakes up in our bed every morning. We used to wake up when she entered the room, but she has since honed her stealth room-entering skills.
The Wog seems to have gotten over her previous fear of volcanoes. Sometimes she likes dinosaurs, but sometimes she does not. Pink milk (of which she'll always request "just a teeny little bit more") and marshmallows make her very happy. The Wog does not yet understand the concept of having an "inside voice." She loves drinking yogurt through a straw, and she is obsessed with taking an airplane ride to New Jersey. She does not like people to talk when she is in a bad mood. She is a big fan of handholding.
A 3-year-old Wog is undeniably, unfathomably—and sometimes frustratingly—irrepressible, which is only one of the many reasons we love her.