Three

Could you please stay three?  I know you're supposed to grow, and that you told me you're already six, but you need to stay three.

Because you're perfect right now.  Your arms feel like Play-Doh around my neck when you hug me and you hold my hand to show me something neat and you laugh at silly things.

And you whisper important things you want me to know

And ask me to tiptoe with you to sneak up on spiders

And you say things like "try-antula" and "callipitter"

And chocolate makes you happy

And band-aids fix your boo-boos

And your eyes double in size when I spike your hair with Daddy's jelly

And you give the baby gentle little kisses

And I don't want to give that up.  I'm not ready to.

At least when you turn four, promise me this:  that you'll still whisper "I love you" in your sleep when I tuck you in at night.  I don't think I'll make it if you stop.