Happy Birthday, Baby!

 Pink cupcakes as far as the eye can see? 

Somebody must be turning three!

Happy birthday to our baby! 

You are the uber baby, with older brothers who are 9, 24 and 24 and an older sister who is 21. You're the babiest of all the babies. And we treasure you so. Thanks for helping me put sprinkles on your pink cupcakes, made from pink cake and pink frosting. They're so sweet they made me feel slightly sick. Your friends at preschool oughta love 'em! There's no accounting for the palates of three year olds, you know.

And baby, thanks for cooperating with the whole potty training thing this week. Though it took six days before we made it through a day with a dry diaper, I'm glad you're finishing your third year in big girl pants. You're obviously advanced. I've already filled out your application to Harvard. You can thank me later, perhaps when you get your first medical degree.

Happy birthday to our sweet funny girl. You were unexpected and you continue to surprise us. I love your little lisp and I'll be sad when you finally figure out how to say your Ss right. Or at least when you finally figure out how to hide your lisp for the most part, unless you are tired or drinking, like your daddy.

I have to say, dropping off a three year old at a preschool and suddenly being surrounded by a bunch of other three year olds who wrap you in the little arms of a group hug is a pretty good way to start the day. Sometimes I wish we'd all stay as sweet as three, as sweet as pink cake with pink frosting. As sweet as the pink heart that beats in this little girl.

If a Tree Falls in the Forest and Has the Stomach Flu...

My eight-year-old son threw up twice last night.

I was having a dinner party for friends. Of course. The first time he threw up was just as I was serving dinner to my guests. He puked right there on the kitchen floor. Splat.

"Bon appetit!" said my husband.

Hours later, as the poor boy rested in his bed and we the adults chatted downstairs, I heard the pitter patter of little feet thundering down the stairs. Just as I met up with him in the living room, he splattered the wood floor with his ginger ale.

"Thanks for coming!" said my husband as he ushered our guests out the door.

Later, I tucked my son into bed, stroked his forehead and put a bucket next to his bed.

"Why didn't you run to the bathroom when you felt sick?" I asked. I mean, he had to run past one bathroom and down an entire flight of stairs to reach (or in his case, "miss") the second bathroom.

"Because you can't hear me upstairs," he said.

Which leaves us with a question: If a boy throws up in the toilet upstairs and no one hears him, did he really throw up at all?

I'll leave that for all the eight-year-old philosophers to ponder.