The magic of three

I have never really been a baby person. As a mother, it usually takes me around three years to get my groove on. It was that way with Girlie and it seems to be the same with Little Guy.

A few weeks back we celebrated Little Guy's third birthday. He is obsessed with firefighter paraphernalia, so we loaded him up with a new hat, an official coat complete with shiny badge (he's the chief), and from my mother - a working extinguisher that shoots water 30 feet.

Oh how I love three. It is like a switch has finally flipped and the terribles are starting to subside. Admittedly often under the threat of punishment, but still. It is amazing to hear the thoughts that come spilling out of his three year old brain. The other day he asked me "Mom, do you know sports?" I said I did a little. He then proceeded to tell me "I really really good at dribbling." And he is. He runs, he jumps, he shoots hoops, he tosses balls, he catches, he swings at baseballs with all the concentration of a brain surgeon. Afterwards he high-fives the neighbor boys, though he's the youngest by a few years. He is becoming a real little dude.

But even better, he puts on his own shoes, makes jokes that are actually funny, and brushes his teeth (with a little help). He's working on the potty thing.

But he's still so small. We've had a few chilly mornings, and he'll stop in the middle of racing cars across the floor to run over and snuggle under my robe.

The magic of three.