One of these days, I will have to bore the collective pants off the Internets and regale you of how Robert clambered into our lives three years ago, on the third day of the third month, at 3:03am. (Seriously.) As his third birthday approached, we were expecting some serious End of Days-type mayhem when all the threes, being the symbol of the Holy Trinity, would click into place on the cosmic odometer and bring about the rapture. We sort of hoped all the Republicans would be sucked out of their clothes and up to heaven.
Robert won't get many gifts at his party this weekend, mostly because our tiny living space is at critical mass, and one more fake power tool could blow our guts out. So we got him the next best thing: the gift of destruction. For 8 hours today, Robert got to help a big Irish guy rip up and replace all the tiles in our kitchen. Talk about rapture: The kid writhed and squealed with ecstasy as each fetid old slab of linoleum was pried and pitched.
And suddenly, an idea for a new tradition is hatched: Every birthday, you get to destroy and rebuild a room in your home. I can get behind that.