Ok, for those of you who have asked, here’s what happened.

I took Hurricane Owen to see Bob the Builder at the Mall on Wednesday. Not a big deal, Treehouse Television is touring him all over the country this summer.

Owen sat patiently through the first ten minutes or so, then, like a shot, ran off to the side of the audience, and had climbed up the side of the stage while Mommy was still stepping over the mass of assembled pre-schoolers trying to reach him.

He then stood on stage and shouted “I have to talk to you!” and promptly went supernova when Mommy and the Bob Bouncers gently ejected him.

The problem? He told me later in the car.

He couldn’t remember what he’d done with his toy “Muck”. (The red digger from Bob’s army of evil talking machines)

He figured if anyone would know where Muck was, Bob would.

We may be banned from all future performances, I’m not sure.

Will know why I’m crying.

A colleague of Sweet Hubby’s at the Art Centre has included a portrait of Bill Huttle in his current show.

He looked long and hard to find a family member to send it to.

When he realized Sweet Hubby was crying when he looked at it, he gave it as a gift.

It’s hard to say how much that man touched my life.

Today’s post was going to be about the three year old, the word “no” and what he did with a plate of spaghetti, a can of Pam, a box of raisins and half a banana, and how long it took to clean it up, but I think I’ll hold off now.

My little bitches don’t seem too big a deal tonight.

My biggest worry right now is how to appear a responsible parent, and enforce that yes, the behaviour in question is indeed wrong, while trying not to laugh openly.

My friend and her husband have bigger fish to fry. Challenges I’m not looking forward to.

They have a teenaged boy you see.

Right now, when all else fails, I’m still big enough to pick Owen up and lock him in his room.

Maybe I’ll just enjoy this age while it lasts.

Absentmindedly telling the pre-schooler yes, he can put his own microwave popcorn in.

He loves pressing buttons, you see.

Trouble is, Mommy failed to work out that since the microwave sits on a baker’s rack at eye level to a three year old standing directly in front of it, the moment he pushed the button that said “open”, yes, the one that released the spring loaded door latch, he would all but render himself unconscious.

Yes, more blood.

I’m a terrible mother.

As to what happens when you leave a three year old alone with a chocolate bunny and a basket of chocolate easter eggs for two seconds while you talk on the phone?

We find out just HOW good Scotchguard really is.

BTW, Owen’s not just an “ears first” kind of guy. More like “head first.”

I was an odd kid. I used to pick the icing eyes of and sit them on the side of the box so they could helplessly watch me eat the rest of the bunny.

And for once, it wasn’t my mother making me want to gnaw my own arm off just for the distraction.

It was Hurricane Owen.

Who faked us all out by taking a really long nap today.

I believe what he was actually doing was planning his strategy.

It’s hard to have a discussion with my folks when every third word or so, SOMEONE has to stop and shout “Owen NO!!!”

Owen spontaneously sprouted eight arms at the dinner table tonight, all of them devoted to things like dropping Mommy’s wine glass into Daddy’s pint glass, then fingerpainting in the resulting mess, while grampa and Mommy frantically try to deal with the shards of broken glass everywhere, then laughing as the mess runs between the slats on my barnboard harvest table, onto the hardwood floor and rather surprised cat below.

THIS time, we got it cleaned up before it managed to rain through onto the computer in the basement.

WHILE we were cleaning up, Owen was stripping naked.

While we were looking for his socks, he was trying to lick a cat.

While we were looking for the cat, he was droppping magnets into the air vent.

So yeah. I’m not crazy about three so far.

Can’t wait to see what happens at the uptight Gramma’s house tomorrow.

At least we got the telltale food colouring off his fingers and nostrils.

I don’t THINK anyone but us will notice that his belly button and the end of his little boy bits are green.

Turning my back on a chronic nose picker whilst colouring Easter Eggs.

This will make for interesting conversation when Gramma gets here.

It’s not so bad. 

When Sweet Hubby goes to work, Hurricane Owen relaxes. 

I don’t know why. 

Today, we took an hour long bath an assortment of tub toys, a plastic chicken and a salad spoon for some reason.  Next, we built his little compression arch tent in the living room, and now he’s inside, with every stuffed animal he owns, eating Honeycomb cereal from the back of a plastic dump truck and reading them stories with a flashlight.