That right there could be the end of this story. All of you who have or have spent large amounts of time with a 3 year old know what happens. His name is Bubbalicious Boudreaux LaFontaine. He's an artist, an engineer, a foreign language specialist, a top chef, and a trained assassin. He is a source of extreme joy and extreme consternation. We love him. He's crazy.
He's our first human child so it's a learn as you go program here. I've gotten some really good advice from good friends who've been kind enough to share with me how they got their junior or princess to paint the house and mix the perfect martini at age 4. But I've also been witness to the malicious joy in their eyes when just before his 3rd birthday they all said "Oh, 3 is way worse than 2." It was at this point that the little fantasy bubble loaded with scenes of a perfectly behaved 3 year old boy child in an ascot discussing the allegory of Lord of the Flys, popped and dropped.
We spend our days with me trying to make him feel appreciated and teach him the alphabet and him trying to teach me how to properly build a monster truck track and the right way to crash a paper airplane. Good times, good times.
Uh oh, gotta go. Bubba's building bleachers for the monster truck rally on the roof of the house and he's run out of nails. See ya soon!
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