I’m not sure how I recognize the pattern of birthday parties sneaking up on me and still have not seemed to conquer such by planning ahead. I suppose it’s just not a huge priority of mine and I’m getting more comfortable with admitting such.

After a week in Arizona, where for much of the time I felt under the weather, we returned home to the usual chaos that seems to greet us each time we leave only to return again: the piles of laundry, the house that smells because of some yellow that got left and mellowed too long, the empty fridge that refuses to let us break the cycle – thanks to traveling – of eating out, and the children that – despite the long haul – are still raring to go at all hours of the day.

We planned on hitting up Baby Beach and I hung to hope that there might even be an open picnic table, in the shade, that we could inhabit into the afternoon. But when we couldn’t even find parking, we quickly circled back around and planted ourselves at Doheny Beach instead, where we had a table, the shade of the empty lifeguard tower for Jimmie, and enough sand space to call our own — all going to show that you can’t always get what you want, but oftentimes you still get just what you need. We spent the morning with family swimming in the sea (well, the guys anyway), drinking lemonade, and watching the boys enjoy themselves. Having had to work the entire day before, I owe thanks to my mother-in-law for there being cupcakes to eat and a candle to blow out and to my own mom for providing refreshments and snacks. I suck at this stuff, I really do.

There were a few moments of ‘good-lord-I-didn’t-raise-him-that-way’ that are sure to come on a three year old’s birthday; moments of tears over the promised skateboard that had not yet been purchased but was planned for later in the day being the main culprit of impatience and whining that seemed to quickly disappear upon unwrapping a basketball, a transformer, a toy motorcycle, and a shirt with a baseball on it — all things his little three year old mind could think to ask for, and then some.

We returned home for midday naps, something I too partook in only to wake up a few hours later and find the guys on the sofa downstairs asleep as well. Everyone but Hooper, who refuses to nap anymore despite days where I know he really could use the pick-me-up. I woke Van, who was snuggled in bed with all of his new loot – his basketball next to his pillow and his motorcycle in his arms – and we took off for the skate shop just down the street.

He held his new skateboard in his lap all the way to dinner and then downright insisted to sleep with his helmet on, his skateboard lying adjacent to him.

I’m not really sure how the years go so fast, but I didn’t find myself dwelling on itt. Instead, I watched my youngest push himself along on his skateboard and felt proud of how independent and strong he his. No need to stay a baby forever when this stage, too, provides so much to be proud of.

Happy third birthday, Van. You are my everything.