Yipee for THREE!

Poor Dawson, he's gotta have one of the worst birthdays ever. I think Christmas Eve or Christmas Day would even be better then the day after Christmas. I was just 41 minutes too late, guess me and my uterus didn't have our act together. I tried to get him out before the clock ticked past Christmas, but you know how that turned out. So we try our best to make it feel special, and do our darndest to make sure he doesn't know that everyone else is more interested in the sales at the mall, or cleaning their house after the Christmas rush, making returns, or all that other boring stuff that happens on the 26th. When I asked Dawson what he wanted to do for his special day, he of course mentioned the four-wheeler and the riding lawn mower. Much to his dismay we couldn't do the latter. And as for his treat, brownies with sprinkles. He loves to help me in the kitchen, and I'm not gonna lie, half of it is because of the tasting that goes along with it. But I don't let the kids eat much batter because of the "rotten" eggs (both of them have it stuck in their heads that the eggs are rotten, not raw). So it is like Chinese torture when we make cakes or brownies because they have to wait until it cooks, then cools so we make frosting and then they can finally have a whole beater to themselves. Patience is not Dawson's strong suit, especially when it involves a sugary substance. So he went on his ride, watched The Grinch for the 9 millionth time, made brownies and then, blessed moment of moments - we made/ate the frosting. We went to a little pizza parlor and had a mini party for him. Papa gave him lots of quarters to play all the games, and we had fun eating pizza with the fam and digging into the much anticipated dessert. He was so cute when he was blowing out his candles. He kept making an exaggerated "f" sound instead actually blowing, so funny since he knows how to blow bubbles. But it was adorable. I of course cried off and on the night before his birthday, the night of, in the shower the next day...and I'm still in denial that he's three. Seriously, who the heck thought it was okay for babies to grow up?

P.S. when I tucked him into bed a little bit ago, he did his usual "give me a kiss, give me yuvins (lovins)" (which means we have to squeeze each other really hard, while gritting our teeth of course, all the while making an "ooh I wanna bite you sound"). But then he said "I just yuv you, I just need you." Oh Dawson my sweet Mama's Boy, you are seriously going to be living in the basement at 31 and I will pretend I don't like it, but you'll know the truth...