Owen turned 3 yesterday. I haven’t had such a fun day with him in ages — we made play-doh pizzas, construction-paper party hats, and a yellow cake with chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles. We did the grocery shopping together and split a bagel. All day long we giggled at each other, swapping “Happy Birthdays” and running around. After dinner he blew out all his candles and was most impressed with the playmobil pirate set we gave him. He played with it up until and then way past bedtime and then this morning, first thing — ran right past me, disregarded breakfast entirely, and sat down to the important business of making pirates shoot each other and find treasure.
He is now officially a preschooler in my book, not a toddler any more; any kid who can read his own name isn’t so babyish as all that. While the specter of potty training looms over us this year, so does the beckoning angel of preschool. He is madly eager to ride the bus to school, where he’ll do his “work,” and asks me each day where his school is. I tell him we haven’t chosen one, which is true, and I’ve broached the subject that most schools won’t take a boy his age in diapers. We’ll see how that particular stumbling block gets dissolved.
He’s just so much fun. I love hanging out with him, following where his mind goes, keeping up with his interests. I love the way he dresses up, too — always pulling his hat down over one eye to serve as an eyepatch, cocking his construction helmet to the front to be a football player.
Two was pretty good, but I think three is going to be even better.
