A brief account of the festivities.

The piñata was one of those pull-the-string dealies, after all. I had no idea. When I bought it I assumed all those ribbons at the bottom were a festive touch. Then I saw the words “PULL-THE-STRING PINATA,” and after a few minutes of sounding it out I figured out what was up. It’s amazing I can get through the day without setting myself on fire.

The actual pulling open of the piñata was anticlimactic. The children quickly lost patience with the idea of taking turns with one ribbon each, so after one round of that we gave up and Henry yanked all of them. At this a small door opened at the bottom and exactly nothing fell out. I had to reach in and fish out the candy and toys. Piece by piece they thunked to the floor. Most of the kids were around Henry’s age or younger, and were impressed with the goings-on but didn’t fully grok that they could take more than one item. They each picked up one sticker or fun-sized candy and ambled away, asking their parents if they could really keep it. Henry grabbed a lollipop and was pleased. The lone six-year-old, the most senior party attendee and apparently a seasoned pro at the piñata, was down there grabbing everything, unable to believe her good fortune. The preschoolers sat back and admired her technique.

After the day was over, we sat down and realized there had been no tears, no bloodshed, no missing limbs. My newly minted four-year-old managed nearly ten hours of festivities (there were two parties in one day: the morning one with the kids, then the evening appearance of the grandparents and aunts and uncles) with style and grace. He greeted his guests with enthusiasm, said “thank you” to each gift, and invited his friends to share his loot. At one point he got a Woody doll and spent the night observing, “I used to have a tiny Woody but now I have a really big Woody!” We all tried not to snicker, and failed. We tried to resist the urge to get him to say it again, and failed at that too.

So in other words, all the misbehavior came from the adults.

It's raining men!

Me: "What do you want for your birthday, Henry?"

Him: "I need lots of guys."

Here she goes again with the letters

Dear Four,

You’re a month away, and you’re already kicking my ass. How is it that you’re kicking my ass from the future? I miss Three. I never thought I’d say that. Please advise.

Love,

Me

Dear you,

Just as I have successfully beaten you down, so have I kicked Three right to the curb. And yeah, I’m here early. So? Why should I explain myself? Poop to that, I say. Poop. Poop in your butt. (Good one, me!)

We all know who’s causing the problem, here. We would be getting along just fine, me from the future and you from the now, if you would only comply with my demands. If you were to provide me (for breakfast) with a twelve-pack of cinnamon Trident (slightly aged so that the cinnamon is not too cinnamon-y) and an ice-cream sandwich and a Playmobil catalog and let me watch violent cartoons while pointing to items in the catalog and shouting I WANT THAT, all while dripping ice cream on my clean pants, then we’d get along just like… pee… on a … foot. (Yes!)

Sure, I may be setting the bar fairly high, but it’s only because I know you can handle it. Just as I know you secretly love it when I fling my surprisingly dense body at your head and whup you with my light saber and then smash my lips into your eye socket. Soon you will be so smitten that you will forget that Three ever existed. You’ll be all, three? That wimpy jerk who liked to watch Miffy? Did Three ever ask you to marry him? No, Three couldn’t make the commitment. But I’m Four, baby. And I’m totally your man. Now get me that ice cream and gum, and make it snappy.

In summary, I’ll be here for a while, and I am going to poop on your head THAT DOES NOT STOP BEING FUNNY!

Yeah!

Four