happy birthday, Bug

Three years ago tonight, I was in Brooklyn trying to sleep. I thought I had a terrible back ache, and was convinced that The Bug was going to be late - his due date, if I recall correctly, was March 14th. By one o'clock in the morning, I was at the hospital asking for an epidural, and somewhere around ten hours later, there was a large slit in my abdomen and we had a real, live kid.

And now, here we are.

From a tiny apartment in Brooklyn, where The Bug slept in bed with us, to a house in Chicagoland where he sleeps in his very own room, in his very own double bed.

From reflux and projectile vomiting to ohmygod how do we get him to stop saying fuck in preschool?

From a fully portable little bean that I wore around NYC in slings and wraps, who slept anywhere and could be quieted with a cuddle or some mama's milk to a hilarious, creative, strong-willed little man who will not go to sleep anywhere even in his own bed until he's damn good and ready.

What am I going to do with this kid? He's barely three, and he likes Spiderman and Sweeney Todd (just the soundtrack, don't get up in arms...). Every night at bedtime, he chooses a Winnie the Pooh book. Just a couple days ago, when I asked him to please not bang the back door open so hard, he replied I fucked it like a monster. He is giving his teacher apoplexy, with the swearing and whatnot. Yes, my kid is the potty mouth trucker of his preschool.

I can not believe that he is already three. And I can not believe that he is only three.
What I can believe is that I will probably be this tired for the next fifteen years, at least...
But I guess it's worth it.

Happy birthday, Bug.