My youngest turns 3 years old today. An enormous accomplishment to be sure. In 3 short years, he has survived:

* an older brother and sister who have attempted to use him as a couch luge,

* a father whose diaper-changing technique could perhaps use a little more finesse, and

* a mother who uses him as fodder in her attempt to make people laugh.

Really, the kid seems to be starting life behind the eight ball.

His rewards for surviving three years, however, are great. Later on this evening, he will be showered with Lightening McQueen toys, Lightening McQueen sheets, Lightening McQueen sneakers, Lightening McQueen bathing suit, Lightening McQueen shampoo, Lightening McQueen board games, Lightening McQueen cake, Lightening McQueen balloons (this blog post sponsored by Cars 2, in theaters now).

I begrudge the birthday boy nothing. But as I drove around town yesterday, searching high and low for the elusive and sold-out-everywhere Lightening McQueen plates and party blow-outs, I began to wonder . . .

What are my rewards for surviving three years with this boy?

After all, I’m the one who birthed an 11.5 lb. transverse breech baby. I’m the one who hasn’t slept a full night in years. I’m the one with stretch marks, crows feet, pre-alcoholism and an eye twitch.

Really, how difficult has the last 3 years been for him?

He has me to prepare his meals, wipe his tush, clean his clothes, and provide endless entertainment (my God, it sounds like we’re married – except for the tush-wiping part). Yes, he has had to learn how to walk and talk (see previous blog post for my thoughts about that!), maneuver the dangers of an older brother and sister and find his place in the family. But is this as difficult as raising 3 kids 5 and under?

I think not!

He has learned a lot in 3 years. He has learned that being funny will get him far and making me laugh will pretty much get him anything he wants, as when he announced to me one evening that he was “baked” and I promptly went out, bought him a copy of “The Big Lebowski” and started calling him The Dude.

He has learned that when he is being disciplined that if he just reminds me, “Mama, you love me” that I will stop the discipline and give him a hug.

He has learned that blaming his brother and sister will get him out of most infractions.

Basically, he’s learned how to manipulate the hell out of me.

My reward for surviving his first three years is nothing more than thankfulness that I haven’t ruined him entirely. All those decisions that were important enough to induce panic attacks in the first years of his life seem to have worked out pretty well so far.

And so my wishes for my son are as follows on the third anniversary of my c-section to remove an 11.5 lb., transverse breech baby from my poor, beat-up uterus (Yes, I know I’ve already said “11.5 lb., tranverse breech baby.” No, I don’t think I can say it enough. Yes, I will probably bring it up again before this post is over.):

* Wisdom to outsmart his older sister when she tries to con him out of his afternoon Oreos by claiming that the chocolate part is actually dirt which she will happily eat for him (I’m raising such compassionate kids!).

* Speed to outrun his brother when he is holding a 25 cent McDonald’s Happy Meal toy that both of them HAVE to have at the same time, even though my 3 year old had it first.

* Patience to deal with his parents when we do not live up to his expectations regarding cleanliness, entertainment or financial responsibility.

Sorry, kid. We’re the family you’re stuck with. Better make the best of it. And always remember – you were an 11.5 lb., transverse breech baby. You better take care of me when I’m old.