Here Come the 3s!!!

Three. Max is Three. Three is Max. Let's just all have a moment and ponder the miraculousness of that: Max has made it to the age of three. We have not harmed him out of stupidity or neglect; he likes Elvis, Buddy Holly, Beck and can pretty much make pancakes on his own. He thinks reading is cool and will do some sort of tooth brushing before bedtime most every night. If kids were pyramids, I'd say we have a pretty good foundation.

Sadly, though, unlike the ancient Egyptians, we have no alien overlords providing blueprints from the mothership. All of our heavy-lifting could be undone tomorrow or in 12 years by a creepy friend that picks his nose and likes to set fires or by a well-meaning cousin who puts one too many Pixies songs on a mix tape.

Until then, and even after, we'll be the proud parents and the delightfully polite, spontaneously singing, stunningly cute, three year-old future singing poet/electrician/train engineer, Max.

And, yes, we had his birthday party at the mecca of Max happiness, Choo-Choo Bob's. Max had a great time hepped up on a steady diet of cake and soda, he'd wildly rip half the wrapping paper off a gift; then grab my hand and drag me off to watch model trains. After a few minutes, he'd remember that he was at his birthday party and there gifts and cake there somewhere. He'd grab my finger and drag me back to the party room for another hit of frosting. It was like a three year-old version of The Night of the Gun.