Three!

My boy turned three last week, and yesterday was his big party. I gave in and picked up a pinata at the local Dollar Store (where pinatas are not, unfortunately, priced at one dollar). It was a riot watching the kids go at it with the bat. Mazin was totally in his element with seven of his favorite friends all in attendance. I wish I could have gotten them all to line up for a group photo, but at seven months pregnant, herding cats is not something I'm willing to do. I wish I could have made a movie of the whole party. Most of the time, the boys ran around in a pack with swords and hats, playing army and pirates or running from monsters. The only girl, Elinor, watched skeptically from the sidelines. We joke that while the boys are play-fighting, Elinor is busy with literacy skills. (She can write her name already, and she's the same age as Mazin!) Mazin has ZERO interest in learning to write his name. He looks at me all exasperated when I try to teach him. He's like, "Mom, really? What the hell? I'm three, just let me scribble!" I guess I'll wait for him to bring it up. I'm certainly not worried about his language skills--he is such an articulate child. And such a social child. Watching him play so joyfully with his friends makes me wish I were game for a big family. But two will be our limit. I just can't imagine handling more than two. And do this to my body again? No, thanks. Speaking of which, my body is gearing up for the big event... much more pain where my two pubic bones are fused with ligaments gradually loosening and becoming more pliant. Funny how I've forgotten the pain of childbirth pretty much entirely. I remember it in theory--like I can picture myself screaming and I remember some of the choice expletives I used--but my body did not preserve the memory. I know there's a reason for that. Only two more months to go until Mazin has a permanent playmate. Time to start those preparatory tasks that do so little to actually prepare you: wash clothes, buy diapers, install the car seat. All to create the illusion that you could possibly be ready for the baby bomb about to fall into the epicenter of your life.