And when I pull out my jammy get ready cuz it might go BLAAAAW, how ya like me now?

India my love,

It's been a long, long time since I wrote you a letter. You're now, what? Two years and eight months.

At two and two-thirds (I had to do math there), you are a force of nature. In this picture you are making what I think of as your "The hell?" face.

There wasn't even any reason for it. Except that we said we had to go upstairs and get changed after breakfast. This is the face you gave the poor candy-hander-outer who asked you who you were for Halloween.

Also, in this picture you are wearing one of three dresses you deign to wear. Two of which are actually nightgowns. Oh, wait. You also have a couple skirts you still like. And two tops. So now that I'm writing it down, I suppose your outfits are not as limited as it feels when we are trying to get dressed.

You have begun to assert that when you are bigger, like when you're four, you will have a penis. I can only assume this is because your brother is so fascinated by his.

Of late, you have started calling me Mumpika. I love it.

"Hi Mumpika!" You sometimes shorten it to Mumpa. (I wonder if when you're a teenager you'll call me something like Mumps and none of us will have any idea why.)

I say, "Hi Indika!" Or, because I call you Indi-bindi, sometimes I say, "Hi Bindika!"

Bindika is taking it too far, it seems. "It's INDIA!"

You say a lot of things in capital letters.

We bribed you and your brother with tons of horrible (and delicious) snacks on the way to and from New Jersey for Thanksgiving. You fell asleep with the Cheetos bag in your hand, and when it was not there when you work up, you immediately looked for it and said, "WHERE ARE MY CHEETOS?"

Between you and Jordan, you are the bossy boots. You happily take charge (C'mon, Jordan!)  and tell him what to do. And if  Jordan is doing something you don't like you'll say, "CUT IT OUT, JORDAN!"

You are a hugger and a snuggler, and you will still wrap your little self around my neck and cling like a tree frog. I love it. You give giant hugs and very carefully-planted cheek kisses. One of the best things in my world is to lie in bed with you at night and cuddle and giggle.

When Daddy puts on his tie and buttons his jacket in the morning, you look at him and say, in an admiring voice,  "Gorgeous!"

I don't know where you got this, but he is charmed by it.

And the fact is, when you are charming, you are so very charming.

Despite your penchant for socks and sandals.

You still eat the lip balm, even though we've had a million discussions about how it goes on your lips and even your cheeks and the rest of your face if you so choose (you do). But we don't bite it and chew it. You seem very disappointed with yourself when you bring me one and report, with evidence, that you've eaten some of it.

There are many days where I am certain that you are killing me softly, but I love you beyond measure, and I wouldn't change a thing. Well, maybe one thing. I'd like a little more sleep. But that's it, my Indika.

Love love love,

Mama