The Boy is 3. Don't Sing To Him.

The other night I put my son down to bed for the last time as a 2-year-old. As I lay down next to him to stroke his hair, the sentimentality of the moment coursing through me, I kissed him lovingly on the forehead and said, "It's your birthday tomorrow buddy. I can't believe you're going to be three."

To which he replied, "No I'm not. I don't love you."

The next day we set out for bagels at our favorite bagel place to kick off the birthday fun-tivites. Though he assured us that he didn't want a birthday, he wanted to eat at home, he didn't want us to sing and he didn't like any of us, we know that meant, "I love you guys so much! Please take me to Back East Bagel!" and so off we went. His attitude sweetened a bit once we started eating, aided immensely by the fact that we got him a chocolate chip bagel with strawberry cream cheese and all seemed right with the world. 

Until he started screaming for his fork and spoon to the top of his lungs. 

This wouldn't seem like a big deal on paper, as you aren't able to hear that my son pronounces the word "fork" exactly as one would pronounce the word "fuck". When screamed, the words "fork" followed by the word "and" blended together until it sounded like he was screaming "WHERE'S MY FUCKIN' SPOON?! I WANT MY FUCKIN' SPOON!" 

The people at the adjoining tables all turned to stare in horror as we gazed upon him with panic in our throats and did the only thing that any rational person would do. We screamed back at him, leading the conversation to go something like this.

Him: WHERE'S MY FUCKIN' SPOON?!

Us (in unison): YOU WANT YOUR FORK AND SPOON?! YOU'RE LOOKING FOR YOUR FORK AND SPOON?!

Him: GIMME MY FUCKIN' SPOON!

Other people:

We left shortly thereafter.

With a birthday party planned for the evening, I naturally saved all cleaning and decorating to the last fucking possible minute and spent the rest of the afternoon running around like a crazy person on four hours of sleep. You may ask yourself, "Why didn't you do any prep the night before if you stayed up so late? What were you doing?"

Like a genius, I chose to use all of the hours of kid free time the night before as they slept not to clean or organize efficiently but listening to Howard Stern and drawing a Pin The Tool on Handy Manny game. I won't stand for ANYONE saying that I don't know how to prioritize. 

I regret nothing

The birthday boy really pitched in during the pre-party chaos too.

Actually, this was more helpful than most anything else he could've done.

The party began and I gotta say, I was struck all day by the absolutely intrinsic differences between boys and girls. Julia woke up on her birthday and ran around in delight all day, relishing the birthday songs and attention, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the decorations and begging for the party to start. Patrick could NOT have cared less. In fact, he seemed almost annoyed any time we tried to give him attention for it and insisted all day long that it wasn't his birthday. Some dudes are made. Others are born. He is an example of the latter. 

That's not to say he wasn't excited about certain things. The cake coaxed a little smile out of him.

Oreos and frosting and candy, oh my!

As did the fruit salad dump truck.

My shirt looked like I'd murdered someone after carving this.

His smile was quickly dashed, however, when we had the audacity to sit him at the table in front of his cake and sing Happy Birthday to him.

How is he pissed about this? How??

He became immediately annoyed at the opening strains of the birthday song and started to bury his face in my side. I moved around behind him, which prompted him to cover his eye and start angrily "shush-ing" everyone for the entire duration of the tune. Really dude? You have a chocolate cake that looks like a construction zone in front of you with Oreo crumbles making up the 3, all while a candle you get to blow out burns brightly as everyone you love in the whole world sings to you and this sucks for you? This is an inconvenience? 

Honestly, I couldn't stop laughing. The similarities between he and his dad are so incredibly apparent, even at this age, that i'ts absolutely mind boggling. Even if he IS angry that you kissed him good morning. He's a surly little shit. They both are. But they're my surly little shits and I wouldn't change a damn thing about either of them.

 

Happy 3rd Birthday, you salty goofball.