Happy Third Birthday to Jack!

 Last night, when I was putting Jack to bed, he consented to say his own good-night prayer (this usually doesn't happen).  And although I appreciate seeing the embryo of personal religious habits in my son, mostly I just liked hearing him talk.  I felt like I was let into the World of Jack: the things he thought most worthy of mention in reflecting on his day.

First, it was a prayer solely of "nanks" (or "thanks," as adult humans would say).  Not to berate my own child, but this is not typical of him.  He actually makes a lot of demands, all the time.  But back to the prayer.  He first thanked Heavenly Father for people: Mommy [and here he inserted: "That's you, Mommy"], Daddy, "me" [pointing to himself, in case I didn't know], and Will. And his Blankie, which is not a person, but might as well be, for all that we refer to it as "he" and because he is Jack's most faithful companion.

Then came the really important characters: Leo, Mikey, Raph, and Donny.  And here he got diverted in recounting that Leo battles Shredder, Mikey faces Rahzar, Donny/Tigerclaw, and Raphael/Fishface.  Then it was on to Thomas, Percy, James, and Luke, his friends from the Island of Sodor. 

He gave thanks for coloring, reading, watching shows, puzzles, wrestling, playing catch, climbing on top of the car (not my favorite activity of his).  He mentioned the "beautiful day," the neighbor boys he likes to play with, his Easter basket, his room, his bed, and our room and bed (try to guess which one he spends more time sleeping in...).  

At this point I told him he could close the prayer if he wanted to, and he did.  But then he seemed to like praying so well that he said another one, more or less repeating all the same favorites.  And then he told me to say a prayer, which I did, and when I mentioned his name, he said: "That's me, Mommy."

His bright, somewhat stream-of-conscious, chattering prayer played like a movie through my head.  All these swiftly flowing images and memories of a baby-turned boy in this third year of his life.

I see him stubbornly crouched in a pile of dirt in the parking lot, sifting it, dumping it, shaping it.  It's important, obviously, and "two more minutes" and an imperious hand are all I get when I tell him it's time to get in the car.

I see him jumping again and again, splashing, kicking, stomping, falling, finally rolling in one of the first early spring puddles.  I am nearly twitching at the thought of how much mud is inside his boots, soaking his sweatshirt, dripping into his mouth.  But winter was long, frigid, relentless, and it is the first puddle on the first day in the upper 60s, and I let him do it, and he is blissful.

I see his face at Disney World when we took him on his first fast roller coaster.  Staccato giggles, shrieks of delight, and then the ultimate symbol of Jack's love when it was done: reverting back to one of the three baby signs we taught him, begging for more.

I think of him in the grocery store when he's wearing his Batman sweatshirt/cape. If he knows someone is looking at him, he will take a mighty leap, strike a ninja pose, and say: "MY BATMAN!" (We're still working on "I'm").  Yesterday when we had construction workers coming in and out of the house while staining our deck, he would stand tall and stare each man square in the eye and declare: "My Raphael!"

I think of his flair for the dramatic.  He loves to role play.  He and Josh can act out all the major battles between the Ninja Turtles and their foes, as well as the Avengers.  This is a common refrain in our house: "Daddy, my be Donny, you be Tigerclaw" or "Daddy, my be Cap [Captain America], you be Hulk." "Daddy, you be Heo [Leonardo], my be Fresher [Shredder]."  "Daddy, my be Ironman, you be Hor [Thor].  We also like to do dialogue between the Tank Engines: Thomas and Percy, Gordon and Toby, Luke and Millie.  But never Sir Topham Hatt, who is almost always cross.

And then there are the duets.  Jack and I sing the "First Time in Forever Reprise" from Frozen a capella, with him holding his own part while I sing mine (so, a duet, like I said...).  He usually starts out being Elsa and I am Anna, and then we switch (Josh and William are usually assigned the parts of either Kristoff or Olaf, who do not actually have any participation in this song). And then we do it a million times more, and I usually end up forgetting which part I am, and he will stop the whole thing and correct me.  One time he told me he was going to do both parts, and he did, inasmuch as that is possible.

When I think of Jack I also think of the inevitable feeling of his toes in my cheek around five in the morning, or being slapped in the face when he flips from side to side.  Co-sleeping with a toddler is about as bad as it gets, and yes, it happens a lot in this house.  We swore we never would but parenthood can beat a lot of things right out of you.  So he starts out in his own room and usually ends up in bed with us at some point during the night, acrobatics and all. 

Jack is a boy of epic rages and darling reconciliations.  His tantrums are both awful and pitiable; awful because I am usually receiving the violent brunt of them, and pitiable because I can see in his red, mottled face and flailing limbs how the force of his emotions is bigger than his little body and brain can control.  He doesn't know what to do with it all.  And sadly as he's become more verbal so have his tantrums.  He learned "shut up" from Toy Story (grrr, jealous Woody in Toy Story 1...).  It is his go-to when he is mad, frustrated, mischievous, or just plain naughty.  Except that he pronounces it "sheppit" instead of "shut up."  So I get flailing fists and legs as well as a steady stream of "sheppit sheppit sheppit sheppit sheppit sheppit."  If you wonder how well I manage these moments, the answer is: not well.  Most of the time I have to remind myself that I am, indeed, the adult in the relationship.

But when he's back to himself, he woos us well with "Sowwy! You're my best hend [friend], just like Thomas and Percy!"  And lots of hugs, kisses, and readiness to dive back into all his favorite activities.

This morning we made birthday cupcakes.  I made the mistake of leaving him unattended with the jumbo-sized canister of sprinkles while I went to put Will down for his morning nap.  From Will's room I heard a sound that was eerily reminiscent of sand being poured from a bottle, and then I heard it again, several times, and I knew the sprinkles were everywhere.  It took me a full 40 minutes of non-stop cleaning to rectify the situation.  But the image of Jack, crouched like some sugar-crazed beast on top of the kitchen table, clad only in a diaper (correct, he is still not potty-trained), "fighting" all the bad-guy sprinkles, is inescapably loveable.  He fought all those sprinkles and beat them all into the ground, carpet, corners, electronics, and everything in the near vicinity of the kitchen table. "Foo-agh! Foo-agh!  Foo-agh!"  That is Jack's battle cry, and it resounded across the billions of slain sprinkles.

Today we also had an Easter egg hunt for playgroup.  He insisted on running around with his large green, yellow, and pink Easter basket, well before we had the egg hunt set up.  As I pushed William in a swing, I watched Jack scramble up a grassy hill on the other side of the park until he reached the ridge.  He ran along the top, shade and sunlight playing on his golden head, his Batman cape streaming behind, clutching the basket as he chased the other children through the chilly spring morning. 

I love my little three year-old.  He is part superhero, beast, ninja, imp, baby, and boy.  It's hard to remember what life was like before his wild, happy, loving, brilliant, lively, uncontainable soul lived among us.  Happy Birthday, Jack!  You are adored by your parents, brother, family, and friends.  Thank you for making life ever more meaningful, treasured, and fun.